Persona Non Grata

by D. C. Grahame

  ‘Ian called, those DNA samples have been sent up north for analysis, there’s a smaller backlog up there.’ Mann explained.

  ‘And now we wait.’ Marler concluded, steering the car away from Grace’s street as the rain continued to build.

  ✽

  Unamused and seldom impressed by theatrics. Heracles sat in the front seat of a van containing several of his yardie subordinates. Sat next to him, Jay focused and navigated the road. Trying to see through the torrential rains that had continued throughout the day and into the night.

  ‘Are you sure about this H? Red’s harmless.’

  ‘We’re just having a word Jay, find out who that was.’

  ‘I don’t think Red’s involved with this dude you know. I’ve never seen anything like it before. The suit, the voice. It was like something out of, well.’

  ‘That’s probably what the man was going for’ Heracles explained, ‘Remember our boy Suga is in intensive care, eating through a straw. If we see this guy, I’m putting a bullet through his left nut.’

  Reaching the Old Market, the rainfall intensified. The street’s few remaining bystanders scattered at the sight of armed Yardies arriving on the scene.

  Unbeknownst to them all from the building opposite, a suited Indy watched on from the rooftop. Raindrops flickered off his mask as he realised the storm’s audio could aid him. Disguising his footsteps as he headed for the vintage pub. Though unsure of how to proceed. His mission to keep John’s old friend Red out of trouble calmed his nerves and focused his mind. This wasn’t reconnaissance. This was a rescue, one he had caused. Red wouldn’t pay for his folly tonight. The idea of him doing so caused Indy to clench his suited fist as he made his way off the tall roof.

  On the ground, Jay grabbed the infamous front-door handle and pushed it with all the might he knew it to require. It remained fastened in place.

  ‘It’s locked?’ Jay questioned, unwilling to doubt his own strength.

  ‘Stop dicking about Jay and open it.’ One associate whined causing Jay to bicker in response.

  Inside the pub, Abi with her body pressed over the bar moaned as Red pushed his large round mass against her. Trousers around his ankles, he sweated profusely from the effort, concentrating on a much-needed finish. As she continued to groan both from the pleasure and the weight upon her. Red heard a male voice moan from afar, causing him to pause his determined thrusts.

  ‘What are you doing? Don’t stop!’ She demanded unamused.

  ‘Hold on.’ Red immediately replied as a third unknown voice shifted back and forth in pitch. Presenting the fact that there were multiple individuals outside the door.

  ‘What is it Red?’ Abi asked, removing herself from the position, hiking up her work yoga pants. Red watched the locked door shudder under a driving force. Then again, this time slightly more violent.

  ‘This fucking door.’ A lower toned voice complained.

  ‘You two, go around, find a way in from the other sides.’ An irked man ordered. Red knew the voice.

  ‘Get in the cellar.’ Red commanded nervously.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Now.’ Red repeated, looking for his handgun, unable to locate it.

  In the rain outside the entrance of the pub, Heracles and Jay stood awaiting their invitation in. A shadowed figure sprinted behind them undetected. Reaching the side passageway that bordered the Old Market’s walls.

  As one of the Yardies reached the North-west side of the building. He spotted a small window which led to the kitchen of the Old Market. Realizing the extravagant choreography required to get in. He cracked open the window and uneasily began to lower himself in feet first. An awkward entry, his legs hung in the kitchen, flailing as his feet searched for solid ground.

  His abdomen now passed the window frame and inside the pub. He felt his right foot touch a metal counter. Relieved, he exhaled.

  Hearing urgent footsteps behind him. An arm encased in black padding slid in and wrapped itself around his neck. Terrified, he flinched as a second black-gloved fist motioned towards his head. The glove itself sounding electrified in some way.

  As the knuckles of the gloved-fist pressed blunt into his neck. He felt his whole body spasm and clench together. As if every little muscle in his body was somehow magnetised to the next one. Immobilised and submitted. The suited figure ripped the thug backwards by the neck, out through the window onto the street.

  East of the building, at the pub’s back door and main staff entrance. The fourth Yardie member took a more delicate and efficient entry. Entering through the unlocked back door of the pub.

  Moving passed a staff room empty and dark. He struggled to locate a light and opted for the torch from his phone. Seeing a corridor ahead, he reached it to see the pub’s structure in all its expected glory. Run down and leaking, with the only warm light coming from a doorframe that led to the main floor. He moved down it, gun in hand. Hearing the sound of creaking footsteps from the far end. He realised his pal had also managed to find an entry somehow. Opting to re-group rather than meet Red and the possible intruder from last night. He continued down the corridor, passing the doorframe of the main floor, scanning for occupants. With no one in sight, he turned back to the path of the kitchen only to bump into a strange solid shadow. The unknown obstacle stood frigid and resolute in front of him. Alarmingly realising the obstacle, the Yardie petrified, raised his gun. The figure having awaited the reaction, employed some form of defensive martial art. Immediately disarming and incapacitating the gang-member who collapsed torpid to the floor.

  Outside, now soaked from the rain. Heracles felt his patience run out and pointed Jay to the door. His subordinate wasted little time in aiming a gun at the lock, firing three shots. Jay stomped the door with all his strength causing it to open a few feet. Heracles quietly entered. Finding the bar manned by a single dark-suited figure standing behind one of his yardies. A gun pressed to the sorry hoodlum’s head. Jay in response lifted his weapon and directed it Indy’s way only to have it lowered by Heracles. The superior remaining calm and somewhat dazzled by the visual.

  ‘Well I’ll be honest, I thought Jay and Suga were high last night.’ Heracles admitted, referring to their description of the anonymous figure’s aesthetic. ‘Who are you?’ he asked.

  Beneath the mask, Indy kept his body behind the semi-conscious man. Struggling somewhat to keep hold of the thug’s upright weight. He was ready for questions this time, ready to talk. Knowing that his voice diaphragm functioned potently.

  ‘Consequence’ he echoed. A choleric Jay looked on while Heracles remained as pensive as ever.

  ‘Cryptic, but what do you actually want?’

  ‘Kane.’ the figure replied, a slight grouse in his voice.

  ‘Well, that’s great, I don’t like the man either. Maybe we could do business together.’

  ‘Maybe.’ The figure replied ambiguously before flicking the safety off the gun. Systematically firing a bullet into the semi-awake thugs’ foot. Making a dramatic example.

  As the Yardie, now fully awake, yelped in pain. The figure restrained him, pressing the barrel of the gun harder into his head. Jay irate, once again lifted his pistol and aimed it at the intensifying character’s head. Heracles stood un-stirred, a disapproving and impatient look on his face.

  ‘What was that for?’ He queried to the figure.

  ‘Consequence.’

  ‘Yeah, right, brilliant, I got that. The consequence thing. Do you only say one word at a time? I don’t know if you can actually see through that thing, it appears to be covering your eyes but that boy there is not Kane.’ Heracles explained, pointing to his man. ‘And while you have my attention, I get bored real, real fast.’

  ‘I want you to tell your friends about me, your enemies too. I want the city to know I’m out there, in the shadows. And that I’m firing bullets into drug-dealer’s feet.’ Indy announced, hoping the message was clear.

  ‘Well, praise for a point well made. But c
apitalism requires two-way movement, my friend. What do I get out of dishing you PR.’

  ‘Your turf battles with Kane’s associates. Mads, Goldmolar. I will make them disappear. You’ll have free reign over the city. A clear revenue stream to fund your capital agenda.’ The figure reverberated. Generating a smile on Heracles’s face.

  ‘I like this guy.’ Heracles turned to Jay, who in contrast wanted nothing more than to shoot the man. Heracles turned back to the figure ‘I think we have an understanding. Now. Release my boy.’ Heracles said in a firm, definitive tone. Indy wasn’t taking chances.

  ‘Once I’m clear, you’ll find him unconscious in the car park.’

  ‘Okay, do you want me to find you on Facebook or shall we just meet in the dead of night.’ Heracles asked.

  ‘You won’t see me again.’ the figure replied.

  ‘Oh, I disagree. You’ll see me again.’ Heracles assured.

  The figure concluded discussions and slowly retreated to the doorway. Taking a weeping Yardie with him.

  ‘You got a name?’ Heracles enquired, only to be met with silence as the figure walked back into the back corridor. Heracles irritated more by his men than the exchange. Insisted Jay join him in leaving his failed colleagues to their own devices.

  With all parties departed and the floor clear. Red looked through a small crack in the reserve cellar door. Astonished by what had just unfolded.

  Clearing the front entrance of the pub, Jay jogged to walk alongside Heracles.

  ‘We’re letting him go?’ Jay said astonished, all the while holding back his vexation.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But what about-’

  ‘Jay, a man is roaming our yard in a mask. He dislikes our competitors, he wants to aid us in the cause. Regardless of the melodrama, know a business opportunity when you see one.’

  ‘Yes but still, we should have people keeping an eye on this guy.’

  ‘We will, but for now, we’ll adhere to his recipe and see what cooks. Have all the boys spread the word.’ Heracles commanded, climbing into the van.

  ‘What word? Fucker didn’t even give us a name.’

  ‘Make one up then. I have a feeling that’s what he wants.’ Heracles stated, ready to call it a night.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Christmas Eve. The city froze as most of its residence fell into hibernation. Enjoying the holidays as best they could, considering recent bizarre events.

  In only a few weeks. Every dealer had caught wind of some schizophrenic vigilante stalking the streets. The majority of them, through a lack of evidence, believing it to be nothing but a new-age urban myth.

  With little to report over the supposedly most joyous time of the year. The media quickly spurned its news cycles over the alleged vigilante’s agenda. With an occasional eye-witness questioned on the evening news. First a serial killer and now a costumed vigilante. Some wondered whether such extremities were present due to the city’s record of allowing criminals to flourish. News shows featured almost daily debates around the issues. Such verbal contests included the hypothesis as to whether Isaac Kane. Still an infamously influential brand. Could perhaps be the root cause of such creatures slipping through the cracks and into the city. Another premise put to the people was when a town obeys and eventually befriends a kingpin. Are civilians forced to take the law, to take retribution into their own hands?

  Conservative, wealthy parties scoffed at the notion. Arguing that the unknown entity, was merely a narrative device. Invented by Kane’s rivals to destabilise his legitimate business affairs.

  These talks went on throughout the Christmas holiday. The dark figure had become a catalyst for divided opinion and anarchic voices.

  Whenever attention lulled around Kane and the clemencies the city provided him. Indy, who over the last few nights, had stalked Mad’s dealers, would appear from the shadows of alleyways. Ambush the dealer post-transaction. Then send evidence of both the deal and the attack, to a random journalist the next early morning.

  Editors questioned the pattern. The timing of their anonymous tips, often correlated with a dip in the news surrounding Kane. But it was still titillating news. It sold papers. Isaac Kane was now on the front page in colossal font, at a frequency rivalling his infamous prime. Something he today, with his critical aspirations, explicitly opposed. Clients stalled, partners withdrew support, even the corrupt sense-checked their every power-play.

  Fearful for his brand. Kane himself held a press conference, offering a reward for the identity of the vigilante. And even this move was quickly rebuffed. With cynics questioning why he had not displayed such effort for the Worthing killer. A sadistic murderer still preying on the city.

  Indy sat in bed, sipping a smoothie while reading the news on his laptop. Much to his pleasure, one journalist declared that ZERO LUCK KANE CANNOT WIN. Re-enforcing that Indy’s ludicrous idea was beginning to recast itself as genius. As he read further, he caught a word in the second paragraph of a story that almost left him drooling at the thesis.

  And all though this individual seems dedicated to squashing low-level drug deals and petty crime. His presence has left an inimitable stain on the city’s criminal ecosystem. A notion of repercussion Kingsland has always failed to dish out. Isaac Nikau Kane may be the city’s king of the underworld, but the mysterious vigilante, some now call HADES. Is undoubtedly becoming its invisible, omnipotent god.

  Indy was surprised by the paragraph, but astonished by the pseudonym.

  Hades.

  Jumping out of his bed to roam through his bedside drawers. Finding a marker, he returned to the paper and circled the appropriate, somewhat illustrious name. As the red stroke of the pen surrounded his new five letter brand. He proclaimed the city and its populace nothing short of bonkers. A people and a media so quick to dramatize, that the real world was beginning to feel like a memory. You cheap-shot ten drug dealers, take a few snapshots, and you’re suddenly and literally labelled a god.

  ✽

  John unravelled the bandaging around his neck to see his skin now semi-healed from the episode. Grace watched through the corner of her eye. Unpacking George’s dirty clothes from his adventure backpack.

  ‘George said he had fun with you yesterday.’ she noted, trying to initiate a pleasant conversation.

  ‘He will climb anything. It’s terrifying. I don’t know how you do it.’ John replied, throwing the bandaging in the bin.

  ‘Your neck looks much better. I guess you’re up and running again.’ She said with a slight hesitance. John tried to decipher her tone. He could sense hope, but whether it was hope he would leave, or that he would stay, remained a mystery to him.

  ‘Listen, I er, got these three tickets from a mate in Bournemouth, they’re to the comic convention later on today. I thought you guys might like to go?’

  ‘Three tickets? To a comic convention.’ Grace said with understandable scrutiny.

  ‘Yeah, he had them spare, and I didn’t want to see them go to waste. Considering George loves Spider-man.’

  ‘He does love Spider-man. You know this because I told you I was going to get him some stuff for his room.’ Grace squinted at him. Making sure he stayed aware of her distrust of his motives.

  ‘I mean if you’d rather you guys went with Kenny.’

  ‘Kendrick.’

  ‘Mm-hmm. It’s all good.’ John suggested slightly insincere. The subtext was now explicit to her.

  ‘Maybe.’ She replied. About to fully reject the invitation. She considered the man’s efforts of late, particularly with George. The two boys had been inseparable these last few weeks. A concept she considered complicated, almost paradoxical. ‘Okay. Kendrick’s away working all weekend, so, that would be fun. Thank you.’ she replied.

  ‘Sweet.’ He nodded back with a boyish charm she both loved and loathed.

  George threw his rugby ball in the air as John and Grace packed the car. John could see George’s excitement transition into a look of dismay as the boy
stared towards the road. Kendrick approached from across it, mystified by the image of them packing the car.

  ‘Where are you going?’ He asked Grace, a governing tone lingering behind his attractive exterior. A smudge of lipstick on his skin, peeking out from under his collar.

  ‘I thought you were working this weekend?’ She replied, dismissive of Kendrick’s insinuating manner.

  ‘I leave tomorrow, where are you guys going?’ Kendrick asked with an eye on John and George. Grace was having none of his chauvinism.

  ‘We’re going to a comic thing down the coast for George. John got us tickets.’ She explained, opening the car. Kendrick moved to her person, whispering in her ear as John looked on suspect.

  ‘You’re going with him? He’s a criminal. The city’s looking for him.’ He said with a falsified urgency.

  ‘Which is why it would make sense to head out of it.’ She replied.

  ‘Grace, listen, I’m just thinking about George and his safety.’ Kendrick responded spuriously.

  John, having somehow transported himself from the garden to his side of the car, interjected.

  ‘You could take my ticket.’ He interjected. Grace looked passed his mock generosity and further to the garden where a dejected George watched on. Noticing her son’s disappointment at the potential ticket swap, she rejected the trade.

  ‘No. Kendrick, we’ll be back tonight. John, get in the car, George in the car please.’ She ordered getting in herself, ignoring Kendrick as she put her seatbelt on.

  ‘The fucking men in my life.’ She moaned to herself at a volume George would not hear.

  ✽

  Mads sat at peace in a small terrace area of one his father’s many upscale cafes. A series of bodyguards flanking his every side.

  Ripping into his food, he watched a nervous but eager man approach his table. A cautious demeanour as Mad’s security intercepted. Giving the nod of approval, curious of the trespasser, Mads watched as Kendrick took a sit in front of him. Needing to speak but not wanting to interrupt the gangster’s appetite. Mads grew tired of his presence and opted to skip the introductive pleasantries.