by Mark Newman
Frank glanced over to his boss, his eyes fixed somewhere in the middle distance. His own thoughts drifting to Glasgow, and how far they’ve come in a short space of time. The Midlands proving fertile ground, but with a heavy price tag.
Malkie had laid out the plan, a direct move against Edwards at his family home. It didn’t sit right with Frank. It went against the unwritten rules. He tried voicing his opinion. ‘All I’m saying is...’
Malkie cut him short. ‘He’s a cancer, needs cutting out, that’s all there is to it.’
‘So we get Morrison to set up a meet, we do it there. That way it’s clean, ethical.’
‘It’s never clean, Frank, you should know that by now and what’s all this shite about ethics?’
‘You go after him in his home, that’s personal, he’s got family. What you gonna do, take them out as well? The Old Bill will be all over us like a rash.’
Malkie didn’t answer, keeping his expression blank, watching the world pass by in a blur.
Thirty seconds passed before he broke the silence. ‘He’s forced my hand, two attempts, Frank, not once but twice, he ain’t stopping till I’m dead. This is a war. Think you’re immune, be coming for you next and your family, that what you want?’
‘We can negotiate, call a truce. We’re not on the East Side anymore.’
‘You don’t like it, walk away.’ He let it hang in the air between them, a menacing dark shroud.
Walking away was never an option. No way Frank was going to see out his days looking over his shoulder. The things he knew, there was no chance Malkie was letting him disappear into the sunset. He couldn’t live out his days waiting for the knock on the door, having to deal with the constant state of paranoia. That’s no way to live. He’d seen it happen to others. Responsible for dispatching a few of them to the next life himself. In the end, they welcome it. Anything to end the turmoil. Frank wasn’t going out like that.
He was in it for life. He couldn’t cash in the chips because things got a little rough. However it played out, he was Malkie’s right hand. Frank floored the accelerator, kept his silence, his inner voice screaming at him. The whole scenario way beyond reason.
Chapter 14
The drive out took a little over thirty minutes. Three jerry cans of four-star petrol stowed in the boot. Edwards’ place backing on to the golf course, a solitary detached new build. Nearest house over a quarter of a mile away. Isolated, away from prying eyes. Perfect.
Halfway down the gravel driveway, Frank killed the headlights, no point in announcing their arrival. Little chance of anyone still being at the clubhouse at this hour. Pays to be cautious, no point in taking unnecessary risks. Not the kind that gets you banged up or worse.
The car came to a halt. Frank popped the boot. Malkie told him to turn the car around, leave the engine running, and keep the lights off.
‘You sure about this, Malkie?’
‘Said your piece already. Going soft on me, Frank, you of all people?’
‘Being certain you’re thinking straight, that’s all.’
‘We get this done, it’s finished. Territory’s ours no argument.’
From there, it was a short sprint across to the ninth hole. A five-foot hedgerow separating the back of Vinnie’s property from the green. Malkie lobbed the first can over into the garden. It thudded onto the lawn, leaving a deep indentation from the impact. The noise louder than he expected, he waited for the bedroom to illuminate. Thirty seconds passed. Nothing. He picked up the second can, forced his way through the thicket. Placing it down, he reached back through and pulled the third to him. He waited, scanning the darkness. Silence. Safe to move forward. Two paces in, stopping, listening. Nothing. Security light inactive. Everything going to plan.
If Morrison’s information was good, Edwards had a routine. TV dinner washed down with bourbon, always a double Jack Daniels. Refilled it at least twice before bedtime. Enough to relax, unwind, and forget about his troubles.
Malkie paused by the patio doors, jerry cans ready to go. Fumbling in his pocket, he pulled out the pre-cut key, placing it into the lock. Stiff, he waggled it left to right. Nothing. Bad cut. He cursed, should have taken care of it himself. He tried again, pulling the handle towards him, applying more pressure, feeling it click.
Opening the door, he found himself standing in the kitchen-diner, soon to be another man’s grave. He took a second to observe the scene. Edwards ensuring his wife had every modern convenience on the market. All the trappings of success for a mobster’s wife, double-range stove, American style refrigerator and coffee maker.
He took a couple of paces farther in, listening for the tell-tale squeak of the upstairs floorboards. All quiet, a thought flashing into his head that this could be a set up. Frank already voiced his concerns about the legitimacy of the act. He pushed it aside, no way Frank’s set him up. But Morrison, that’s a different matter. Can’t trust a dirty cop, he needed to deal with him, soon.
Malkie opened the first can, sloshing it over the worktops, up the walls, over the oak dining table, has to burn well. Making his way into the TV room, he was greeted by two huge, black leather sofas adjacent to a walnut entertainment cabinet. He emptied the second can, making sure it soaked all the soft furnishings.
Out into the hallway. The third can spraying the floor, walls and doorway. He finished it off on the stairwell.
Lighting the first match, he held it up, watching the flame dance orange and bright. He let it burn halfway down. Throwing it, the match hit the floral stair runner. He stood watching as the flame, finding its rhythm, danced a graceful Bolero. He retraced his steps, throwing a second one into the TV room, the contents igniting upon impact.
He had to be quick now, the stairs were beginning to take hold. Crackling of timber and the whoosh of the ravenous flames engulfed everything in its path.
Back to the kitchen-diner, the intense heat of the fire creating a sweatbox. Malkie fought the reflex to cough, noxious fumes suffocating any oxygen pockets. He reached for the patio door, opened it, stepping outside, sucking in a lungful of breath in-between retching and coughing. Looking up, orange flames licked at the bedroom’s timber window frame.
Lighting the third match, under arm lob, his eyes followed it as it cut through the night air. It hit the table, flames whipping on impact. He stumbled back, scorching heat lashing at his face and hands. He kicked the patio door shut, UPVC frame twisting and deformed. He took a second to catch his breath, mesmerised, a cacophony of red, yellow and orange acrobatics.
No way is Edwards making it out of there. He slipped back through the hedge, sprinting across the green. Frank in the car, engine running, ready for the off.
Elated, Malkie smacked his fist twice on the car roof. ‘See that, Frank, now it’s done. Now we rule, no negotiation, no exceptions.’ Frank, unable to share the sentiment, watched as the apex of the roof disintegrated, folding then caving in. Sirens in the distance, their cue to get out of there. Frank hit the gas, shards of gravel flying in all directions.
Navigating the country lanes at speed, the sound of the sirens dissipating as he accelerated into the blackness. Two miles in, he turned off down a country farm track, a dilapidated mixture of outhouses and barns greeting their arrival.
Malkie alighted the vehicle, jogging to the nearest barn twenty yards away. Inside, a clean getaway car.
Frank drove forward onto a boggy field, and jumped out of the car, a crimson glow on the horizon nagging at his conscience. He ignored it, moving to the rear of the vehicle. Retrieving another jerry can from the boot, he opened the rear passenger door, spraying the contents over the upholstered interior. He did the same to the front, and then worked his way round the outside, making sure the doors, sills, roof and bonnet receive an equal dousing.
Malkie was standing beside him now, changed from the hardware store blue boiler suit and workman boots that could place him at the scene. Bagged up, he tossed the contents onto the back seat of the Sierra Cosworth. No trace,
no evidence, no comebacks.
‘Safer to let them burn with the car, we get pulled, be difficult trying to explain that one to the police.’
Frank nodded his head, keeping his eyes fixed on the blood-red sky flickering in the distance. He released the petrol cap, stuffing a rag into the top of the aperture. Malkie made his way to the replacement vehicle, a Volkswagen Golf, boosted two days before. False plates and a paint job disguising any claim to previous ownership.
Frank lit the taper, setting it inside the rag and sprinted away. Twenty paces out, the Ford exploded, the blast knocking Frank to the ground. He jumped to his feet, leaping into the Golf, tyres ripping into the dirt track.
Chapter 15
The next day, local news broke the story. Police remained tight-lipped. Unnamed sources close to the investigation said the good money was on arson. Unconfirmed reports suggested the remains of two charred bodies were recovered from the scene.
Frank’s stomach lurched, he moved closer to the radio, turning the bulletin up. He had a bad feeling where this was going. Edwards was supposed to be alone. Reports speculating two bodies found at the scene appeared to be a female adult and child. Forget arson. That meant homicide, double murder. Life imprisonment.
Frank grabbed the phone from its cradle, punched in the number. Malkie picked up on the third warble.
‘You best turn the radio on.’
He’d been expecting the call. His voice resigned and flat. ‘No need, watching it on TV, local news reporting from the scene.’
‘This is fucked...we’re fucked, you any...’
Frank was entitled to vent but not like this. Malkie’s voice became harsh, ‘not on the phone, usual place, half hour.’
The tell-tale click of the receiver told Frank the conversation was terminated.
Frank put his head in his hands. Ran his hand through his hair. Malkie fucked up and he’d followed. Might not have set the fire but he carried equal blame. He prayed to God the reporters had it all wrong.
Malkie was waiting at the rendezvous point, a service station just off junction three. Frank recognised the car, the Merc. He drove past, checking his mirrors. The police were bound to be onto them. He drove round twice, acting as though he was looking for a decent parking space for his Shogun Sport four-wheel drive. Satisfied, he parked a hundred yards away. He hurried across the parking lot, head down against the wind and rain. He made his way inside, and stood at the WH Smith newspaper stall. He picked up one of the red top tabloids, leafed through it, looking for something of worth. Malkie joined him, reached for another title, thumbed through. He kept his eyes fixed forward. Just another punter.
‘Need to hold your nerve, Frank, know better than to phone me.’
‘Double murder...the fuck did that happen?’
‘Nothing’s changed, stick to the plan.’
‘Wife and kid Malkie, you say nothing’s changed?’
‘Speculation, Frank.’
‘What, you need to hear it from the cops before it’s real?’
‘So what if it is?’
‘Civilians, remember.’
‘Collateral damage.’
‘Eleven-year-old girl, collateral. You taking the piss?’
‘Edwards knew the life, took the risk. His choice. Could have walked away. He chose to make a stand. You want me to send flowers, that it?’
Frank eyed him, anger rising within, letting it subside. He knew better than to antagonise the boss.
‘Just don’t sit right...being a child killer.’
‘Fuck that. You wanna get sentimental, best convert, go Catholic. Unburden yourself to some kiddie-fiddler priest.’
‘So what now?’
‘We wait. Let Edwards make his move. Then we finish it. Meantime, I need a drink, you joining me?’
****
Malkie took a sip, scanning the room, enjoying the reassuring burn at the back of his throat. ‘Like I said, collateral damage. Fuck all we can do now. Shit happens.’
‘And the police, how we gonna handle that?’
Malkie drained the remnants of the Bush Mills, sticking his hand in the air for another. ‘Alibi’s solid, the cops got nothing. So what if they come speak to us? Be disappointed if they don’t. Just hold it together, Frank. Let them come. When they’re done, Edwards will make his play.’
‘You reckon?’
‘Wouldn’t you? Wife and kiddie gone like that. He won’t be thinking straight, make mistakes. What is it the Americans call it? Closure. That’s it, that’s what he needs. He’s coming after me himself, no question.’
‘Then what?’
‘We end it.’
‘You got it all worked out.’
‘Been waiting on this, he’ll come. It’s personal.’
‘When, how?’
‘Man’s gotta make a statement, be the Kings. If nothing else he’s gotta save face. What better way than to take me out in my own home? And it’ll be soon.’
‘Why wait? I’ll go to him, finish it clean.’
‘No fun in that, Frank. I want the bastard on his knees begging me to end it.’
Frank stared into the bottom of his glass, silent. Burning questions tearing into him, had Malkie known all along that Edwards wasn’t even there, just his wife and daughter? The thought brought the bile to the back of his throat. He knew Malkie was a cold bastard, but this was different. Demented. He didn’t want any part of it. He felt tainted, lied to, complicit in the murder of woman and child. Not what he’d signed up for. No way.
The police came and hauled in Malkie and Frank, both of them released without charge twenty-four hours later. Alibis held up to scrutiny. Cops knew damned well Malkie Thompson was behind the attack, just couldn’t prove it – not yet.
Chapter 16
Edwards drained his last dregs of bourbon, helped to numb the pain but it couldn’t block it out. Didn’t matter what happened now, all gone to shit. Remnants of his crew in tatters. Thompson running wild like a rabid dog, time to put him down. Screw the consequences. Beyond that now. The only two people in his life who meant anything, gone.
Nightmare on replay each night, haunted by his daughter’s voice screaming Daddy help, help me please. His wife’s tortured expression, silent tears streaming down her face, the flames licking at her nightdress.
He couldn’t bring them back, but he could go some way to getting even.
Seventeen days since the fire. Malkie had been questioned twice, released both times without charge. He’d even instructed the police to pass his condolences on to Vinnie Edwards, sent a bouquet of flowers to the double funeral.
Edwards had gone to ground. No one on the street spoke his name. Heightened fear of incurring the wrath of the prime suspect ensured silence.
Each night, Frank slept downstairs at the Kings Retreat, waiting for something or anything. His mind alert to every sound, but still nothing. Part of him wanted to believe Edwards was gone, instinct told him different.
He squinted at the clock on the wall 3:10am. He didn’t know what had woken him this time, was it a sound or a feeling? Whatever it was, he couldn’t put his finger on it. He reached for his gun, having taken to sleeping with it every night since the fire. He checked the load and chamber of the Glock, and made his way to the door, listening hard. Nothing, just his over-active imagination, too old for this shit, Frank.
He turned to go back to his makeshift bed, duvet, pillows and inadequate padding that passed for a mattress, his back aching at the prospect of hunkering down again. But there it was, definite this time, Malkie’s voice. It wasn’t raised, his tone level, broad Glaswegian unmistakable. Maybe he was talking in his sleep again. He opened the door, standing at the foot of the stairs, another voice for sure.
Frank crept up the stairs, careful to avoid the burglar step three rungs up. He kept his gun trained on the landing. He got to the top. Clear now, voices raised. He recognised Edwards, his dialogue slurred. Malkie taunting him. Telling him they died slow. Flames eating them alive, s
creams penetrating the night air.
Edwards let out his own scream, like nothing Frank had heard before, a tortured banshee. He pulled the trigger. Frank got to the door and caught the muzzle flash, the shot ricocheting off the headboard, the bullet embedded in the chest of drawers.
His eyes darted to Malkie. Still alive. Motionless, laughing. ‘Can’t even shoot straight, wanna go easy on the booze. You gotta do this right, this is for them. Come on. Take aim, pull the trigger. Last chance.’
A mixture of tears and snot streamed down his face. ‘Bastard...fucking sick bastard.’ Trying to find his target.
‘Do it now.’
Edwards raised the gun, calm. No more tears. This was for them – his wife, his daughter, his last act.
Malkie looked on defiant, raising his arms out to the side.
Frank lunged, at the same time he pulled the trigger of his Glock twice. The first round slammed into Edwards’ ribs. The second catching him somewhere lower in the gut. The impact of the first bullet enough to force him to crumple as Frank’s bulk ploughed into him, bringing him down hard.
‘Took your time there, Frank, hoping he was gonna finish me off?’
Edwards was gasping for breath, coughing up blood, Frank’s bullet finding his lung. Choking, drowning in his own blood, Malkie not ready to let him go. Not just yet. Straddling him, he pulled him up by his shirt collar. Frank retrieved Edwards’ gun from the floor, a .45 US Army import and passed it to Malkie.
‘Nice hardware, wasted on you though, eh.’
Malkie forced the barrel inside Edwards’ mouth. ‘Be sure to say hello to the family for me.’ He pulled the trigger once, letting the lifeless corpse slump back to the floor.
Malkie Thompson, undisputed boss, licence to reign supreme.
Thank you for reading Violence in the Blood. I really hope you enjoyed it.
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