by Andy Wiseman
Victor watched the lighter sail through the air towards him, his free hand reaching out to catch it.
As Harry started to push down, preparing to shift his balance, he said, ‘It’s a style of fighting that can out-box a bullet, Victor...’
The lighter flew a little high and a little to Victor’s right, forcing him to stretch to catch it. As he did so, he realised he’d been tricked.
Harry watched the Russian reach for the lighter, his body turning slightly as he did so, the gun moving away. Executing a skip-in sidekick, Harry launched himself forward, covering the intervening distance in a fraction of a second, his knee snapping up to waist height, before then shooting his leg out horizontally, his foot slamming into the centre of Victor’s chest.
The momentum lifted Victor off his feet and propelled him backwards, towards the swimming pool, at the same time as the gun went off, the bullet displacing the air close to Harry’s head, the deafening explosion echoing around the room, briefly silencing the fighting dogs, and leaving an agonisingly painful ringing sound in Harry’s ears.
The two dogs - though bloodied and weary from fighting each other - were on Victor in seconds, dragging him around the pool like a rag doll, quickly shredding cloth and exposing soft skin, to then rip chunks of flesh from his body.
Harry stood by the edge of the pool, looking down dispassionately, immune to the inhuman howls of pain. ‘Purely business, Victor, purely business,’ he said, quietly. Then, as an afterthought and with considerably less eloquence, ‘Oh, and fuck you too, Victor. I guess smoking did kill you in the end after all,’ he said, tossing the cigar in after him.
CHAPTER 53
Harry walked the familiar path for the second time that evening. As usual the front door wasn’t locked. Unusually though, it wasn’t closed either, but slightly ajar. Harry slipped into the darkened hallway, easing the door shut, to then stand and listen. There was the overspill of light at the far end of the hall, and other than the faint trace of murmured conversation, the house was quiet - and there was no sign of the dog.
A dark figure stood hunched over the freestanding safe, his back to the study door. A figure whose hands frantically scrabbled and clawed at the safe’s locked door, angrily cursing and swearing, yet in hushed reverent tones, subconsciously respectful of the peace and tranquillity of the room, the gentle tick of the grandfather clock, the crackle of the embers in the fire... the faint wheeze of laboured breath.
A coloured spectrum of yellow, black, and purple bruising surrounded Cutter’s glassy eyed stare, maniacal in his efforts. A film of sweat coated his forehead, to periodically trickle down his swollen, yet slowly healing, broken nose. In his hands - one with surgical tape and splints holding broken fingers, the other, bloodied and crudely bandaged with a quality silk neckerchief - was a large, old-fashioned, wood handled, slot-headed screwdriver, which he’d found on the premises. He was attempting to insert the flat blade of the screwdriver into the narrow gap between the metal door and frame, but the blade was slightly too thick. Cutter’s frustration increased as he struggled time and time again to get purchase, but time and time again the screwdriver would suddenly and violently slip, veering off to gouge yet another groove into the painted metal surface, sending Cutter off balance and angering him even further.
Solomon was still behind his desk, still in his chair, not by choice but bound by tape. His mouth and nose had been bloodied by Cutter’s fist, waistcoat and shirt, ripped apart with no regard for decency or quality of cloth, white cotton vest sliced clean down the front by Cutter’s sheaf knife, now laid upon the antique desk and also bloodied - though not by Solomon or Cutter. Livid red, blistered burn marks, interspersed with blobs of molten candle wax, contrasted with the pallor of the old man’s parchment-like skin, the instruments of his suffering lying not too far away. A large ornate candle lay on its side upon the desk top, it’s flame burning vertically upwards, spreading a pool of molten wax. A fire hearth poker protruded from the embers of the fire, it’s tip a glowing red.
The big German Shepherd dog lay near the open doorway, it’s eyes heavy, appearing to be close to sleep, which it was, the pool of blood that spread from beneath its body slowly growing.
‘I will get what I deserve, old man, even if I have torture you to death, you old fucker,’ said Cutter, as he rammed the tip of the screwdriver once again into the safe, and wrenched back hard. ‘You owe me. I did the shit jobs. I cleaned up after you. I did the work your bastard son wouldn’t do,’ he said, jerking on the old screwdriver, only for the wood handle to split in half, and the exposed pointed metal tang to dig deep into the bite wound on his injured hand. ‘What has Harry got that I don’t?’ he screamed in agony, throwing the split wood to one side, tone no longer hushed or reverent.
‘It’s time to move on. Henry’s come back. Come home,’ said Solomon, between laboured breaths. ‘And you’ve become a liability.’
‘I want what’s coming to me! I want what’s due!’ raged Cutter, lashing out with his foot, to kick at the steel door again and again. ‘Where’s the fuckin’ key, old man?’
The safe, like its owner, was old and made to last. It wasn’t giving up its contents to brute force, any more than the strength of will that burned in the old man’s eyes could be dampened. Solomon weakly shook his head, saying, ‘Whatever you do, Harry will avenge me. Family always sticks together.’
‘Does Harry know the truth? All of it? Does he know you betrayed him?’ asked Cutter. ‘Does he know you framed him? If he did, he’d kill you himself,’ he said. ‘You showed him no respect. No honour. You know Harry lives by the old code. Personally, I think Harry Windsor is a wanker, but I got respect for him.’
‘Harry sees the big picture,’ said the old man, gently nodding his head. ‘Family is everything. Harry will understand...’
Solomon’s voice tailed off, and Cutter froze as a faint noise reached both their ears, a faint noise that sounded like the whine of an animal: the whine of a dog - the whine of a dog pleased to see someone.
Cutter - whose back was still to the study door - was rooted to the spot, his body taut like a coiled spring, feeling vulnerable, his mind racing, his senses heightened.
He sensed danger.
He listened. He listened hard, ears desperately straining for the slightest sound. But all he heard was the gentle tick of the grandfather clock, the crackle of the embers in the fire, and the faint wheeze of laboured breath.
His eyes flicked to the left. He saw Solomon, still bound to his chair, looking towards the study door, a smile upon his face. On the desk in front of the old man lay his sheaf knife. In the fire, the poker was glowing red. Both were out of arm’s reach.
Breathing in deeply, Cutter tightened his grip on the broken screwdriver, body tensing. Surprise is the key!
From his crouched position over the safe, he started to quickly turn, rise, and then launch himself at the approaching danger all in one fluid movement, breath exploding from his body as he did so, while whipping the screwdriver up and over his head, to then bring it slashing downwards.
A faint ‘snick’, sound was heard.
As Cutter turned and leapt, screwdriver swinging in an arc towards his silent and unknown attacker, he realised he’d made a mistake. He’d misjudged. He’d misjudged his own timing and that of his attacker, who’d already crossed the room and was almost upon him.
Cutter’s momentum came to an abrupt halt, like hitting a wall. A wall named Harry.
He dropped the screwdriver.
Harry had read Cutter’s body language. He’d seen him tense up, preparing to attack. So Harry had attacked first, timing and delivering his blow with maximum effect, his fist slamming into Cutter’s oncoming body, into his chest, driving the breath from his lungs and leave him gasping for air. As his knees buckled and he began to sag, Harry’s free hand gripped him by the back of the neck, drawing him in close to support his weight, intimate like a lover’s embrace, his ragged and desperate breath loud in Harry’s
ear.
The pain to Cutter’s chest was excruciating. The power of Harry’s punch, combined with his own forward momentum, had left him breathless and weak. The bruising felt like it stretched deep inside his chest, every fought-for breath causing a stab of pain. ‘Harry, you’re a wanker and you punch like a girl,’ gasped Cutter, as he struggled to stand.
‘Knock-knock-knockin’ on heaven’s door,’ sang Harry, quietly into Cutter’s ear. ‘I always preferred the Bob Dylan version myself. How about you?’ he asked.
Cutter feebly attempted to break free from Harry’s embrace, but seemed unable. He looked down to see that Harry’s gloved fist was still pressed up against his chest, and, bizarrely, it felt like he was anchored to it.
‘Wayne, you finally got what you deserve. What was coming to you. And it’s certainly been long overdue,’ said Harry, uncurling his fist, to then take a step back.
Cutter stood, swaying, still unsteady on his feet. He looked down at where Harry’s fist had been only seconds before. He frowned in puzzlement and confusion, struggling to comprehend. He tentatively reached up to touch the bone handle that appeared to be horizontally glued to his chest, jolts of excruciating pain shooting through his body as he did so. He looked up at Harry with disbelief on his face, finally realising. ‘You fuckin’ stabbed me!’ he gasped. Harry stared back, expressionless. ‘You fuckin’ stabbed me... with a fuckin’ knife!’ he said, again, shaking his head in bewilderment. ‘You don’t use knives!’
Harry shrugged. ‘Guess I’ve fallen in with the wrong crowd,’ he said, simply.
With that, Cutter’s legs gave way and he crumpled to the floor, slumping backwards to end up leaning against the door of the safe. Looking down at the flick knife embedded in his chest, he again shook his head in disbelief, before then looking over at Solomon, who gazed smugly back. Turning back to Harry, he said, ‘Don’t trust that old fucker, Harry, he’ll do you over. He set you up, Harry. One of his bent coppers planted the drugs in your car. That old fucker,’ Cutter tried to raise his hand and point at Solomon, but didn’t have the strength, ‘is the reason you got banged up, Harry.’
‘I heard,’ replied Harry, looking over towards the old man, who smiled back benignly.
‘He also ordered the hit on the big Irishman, and tried to frame you for that too,’ said Cutter, his voice getting weaker.
‘No, Cutter,’ replied Harry, a darkness crossing his face. ‘That was you, and only you.’
‘No,’ he whispered, his chin now resting on his chest, his eyes closed. ‘It’s in there... all of it... the truth,’ he finally managed to say, the slightest twitch of the head, indicating the safe.
Cutter fell silent.
Harry looked down at Cutter’s body for a long thoughtful moment. When he returned his attention back to Solomon, he found the old man watching him carefully, the smile gone, uncertainty in his eyes. Harry studied the old man before then saying, ‘What’s in the safe?’
The old man noisily cleared his throat before answering. ‘Henry... Harry, you know Cutter cannot be trusted. He’s a compulsive liar and would say anything to save his own skin,’ said the old man, softly, reassuringly. ‘He’s not like you, Harry. He has no loyalty to anyone other than himself.’
Harry approached the old man, and the nearby fireplace, to stand and gaze down into the dying embers of the fire. ‘So, you didn’t set me up, then? It wasn’t because of you that I got banged up?’ he said, over his shoulder. ‘Cutter did say I should “look closer to home”. I thought he was referring to Stephen.’
‘Harry, would you be so kind as to cut me free, please? These bonds are quite uncomfortable, and I really could do with a strong drink,’ said Henry Solomon, with a strained smile.
But instead of releasing the old man, Harry reached down to extract the poker from the hot embers. Straightening, he then studied its glowing red-hot tip. ‘What’s in the safe?’ he asked again. When Solomon didn’t answer, Harry turned. The old man still looked uncertain, his eyes questioning, waiting.
Harry replaced the cooling poker back onto the hook of its companion set. He then reached across the desk, not for Cutter’s knife, but for the roll of the remaining tape. He picked it up, snuffing out the burning candle as he did so, and then moved away.
‘Harry?’ said Solomon, puzzled.
Harry removed the neckerchief that bound Cutter’s hand, before then approaching the injured dog. He quickly located the single knife wound, high up on the dog’s chest, delivered by Cutter, as the dog had leapt up in defence of his master.
Wadding the piece of cloth, Harry then pressed it against the animal’s wound, using the tape to tightly bind it into place to and staunch the flow of blood, all the while talking to the dog in a low reassuring tone.
From his chair, the old man scrutinised Harry’s every move, to then give a sharp intake of breath when he saw Harry part the animal’s thick long coat and withdraw a shiny silver key that had been clipped to the dog’s collar.
As Harry approached the safe, the old man said, ‘How did you know?’
‘As you said yourself, other than you, I’m the only other person the dog ever trusted, and I’ve petted him often enough over the years to have discovered your secret key long ago,’ replied Harry.
With the toe of his shoe, Harry pushed Cutter’s dead body to one side, to then kneel, unlock and open the safe, revealing its contents. For a moment, Harry was like a statue, unmoving, staring into the safe. Solomon watched and waited, the look of uncertainty now replaced with the look of fear.
Harry reached into the safe. The first item he removed was a black leather case. A quick check of its contents confirmed what Harry had expected: bundles of fifty pound notes, yet considerably less than there had been earlier in the evening. If Harry had to make an educated guess, he figured about eighty thousand less.
At this discovery, Harry’s shoulders slumped, his face taking on a look of reluctant resignation.
The old man looked on, barely daring to breathe.
Harry placed the leather case on top of the safe, to then continue his search. He withdrew a handful of papers. He flicked through a few, not really sure what he was looking for, and now, if he were honest, not really caring. Two items caught his eye: an official document, and a small notebook. The document was a lease, the name on it interested him enough to slip it in to his inside jacket pocket; the notebook was filled with names and what appeared to be payments. Harry recognised a few of the names as past and present members of the Queen’s Constabulary. The presence of one name, a not so long ago promoted D.S., brought a satisfied smile to his face. The absence of another pleased him more.
As he stood, notebook in hand, he heard what he thought was the old man sighing with relief. ‘I’m sorry, Harry. I’m sorry I deceived you. You didn’t deserve it. But what I did was for your own good. You were making a big mistake, Harry. I had to put that mistake right.’
Harry studied the old man as he spoke. Listened to what he had to say, and how he said it. He sensed the old man was uneasy, nervous. Something wasn’t right.
Harry turned his attention back to the safe and its contents.
‘Harry, please. Untie me,’ urged the old man.
Harry reached in and brought out another bundle of papers. He soon found what he was looking for, what the old man didn’t want him to find, hoped and prayed he wouldn’t find.
An envelope.
The name and address on the envelope was in shaky, yet beautifully hand written script. Within the envelope was an equally beautifully written letter. Harry instantly recognised the handwriting: it was Lillian’s, his mother’s. He also had no difficulty recognising the name and address. It was addressed to him... and it had been opened.
Harry skimmed through the letter before carefully folding and replacing it in its envelope, to then also slip it into his jacket pocket.
Harry couldn’t quite take in what he’d just read. It contents were brief and vague, almost cryptic. It was dated aft
er his arrest, when his mother’s illness would have been at its worst and her strength at its lowest, so it would have taken some effort to write. It had left him bewildered, his emotions in conflict: relief, sadness, anger. Relief that his mother had always believed he was innocent of the crime he’d been jailed for and that she knew with whom the blame lay: his father. His father? She had always wanted to tell Harry and Stephen about their parentage, but didn’t know how, and the longer she had left it, the harder it had become. She asked for his forgiveness, expressed her love for him and Stephen, and how she hoped they would go on to lead happy and contented lives. She had signed-off the letter, your loving mother.
The sadness Harry felt was that his mother wasn’t there in person to be able to tell him.
The anger was towards the man sitting not too far away, for having the letter, reading the letter but, more importantly, depriving Harry of peace of mind, of closure.
Harry returned the remaining papers to the safe. He then stood and approached Solomon, his face a mask of stone. To Harry, the old man suddenly looked frail, no longer invincible, and there were tears in his eyes. Harry wasn’t sure if they were from fear or regret. ‘Why?’ he asked, simply.
‘I was afraid. Afraid you would leave my employ. We make a good team. I had to take steps. It’s not too late, Henry. We can again be a force to be reckoned with. With you at my side, we can dominate London gangland. We can be as strong as the Krays ever were.’ The old man looked at Harry, held his gaze, his tired and rheumy eyes imploring. Harry looked away, back to the cooling embers of the fire. Partly because he was afraid he would be drawn back under the old man’s spell, but largely because something was tugging at his memory and he couldn’t recall what. Something else in the letter...
Father!
Harry’s head snapped around, startling the old man. ‘The letter mentions my father...’ At this, the life seemed to drain from Solomon’s body. His shoulders slumped, his head dropped, shaking from side to side in denial. ‘You know, don’t you? Tell me,’ said Harry.
