Bone Breakers (A Stanton brothers thriller)

by Martin Stanley

  The knocking got louder.

  “That’s not Terry,” Mark said, matching Eric step for step.

  “Suspect you’re right,” he replied. “First place Terry’s going, if he’s smart, is the hospital.”

  “So who the fuck is it?”

  Laughter drifted through Bellman’s bedroom door; stop-start laughter punctuated with gasps and hisses.

  “Summat you wanna tell us, Bell End?” Eric asked.

  “Only. That. You’re fucked.”

  “Who’s outside?”

  “Some mates. Of mine.”

  “You don’t sound very well. Maybe you should let us in.”

  “Maybe you. Should get. To fuck.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “So. Am I.”

  “Who’s outside, Dave?”

  He paused. “Anthony and George. Karagounis. Big John’ll be. Joining ‘em shortly.”

  The big lad stopped examining the bedroom hinges and gazed at his companions, his face screwed up with worry. He pulled his bottom lip between his teeth and gnawed at it until it bled. “Not sure what you two have got planned to get us outta this, like. But I’d say, right now, more than anything, we better start finding some way to escape, and fast.”

  17.

  The two men knocked on the door and kept knocking, making sure they were as loud as possible. They were still knocking when a short man with thinning hair and a face like a depressed bulldog emerged from the flat next door. Despite the fact that the two men had five inches in height and thirty pounds of muscle each over him, the man approached without fear, patted one of them on the shoulder and said: “Look, I’m trying to sleep, mate.”

  George Karagounis turned and regarded him silently. He had jet-black hair, swarthy skin and a bushy mono-brow that balanced on his forehead like a fat black caterpillar. He might have been considered handsome if wasn’t for the brow and the crazy eyes lurking in the shadows beneath it. George stared at his almost identical twin, Anthony, who with a silent shake of the head told him to let it be – the man wasn’t worth it. George remembered he had a job to do and proceeded to get on with it by ignoring the interruption.

  The man didn’t like this much and gave George a much harder slap to the shoulder. This time he stopped knocking and gave him his full attention. “What?”

  “I said I’m trying to sleep.”

  “Well, you’re not gonna manage that standing out here,” George replied and started knocking on the door again. “Try going back to bed. That usually helps.”

  The man’s face darkened slightly. “Funny, mate. Are you a comedian?”

  “No, I’m a bone breaker,” George said, staring into the man’s eyes. “I’d take that as a hint and go back to sleep.”

  The man noticed something dangerous in his gaze and took an unconscious step back, but still didn’t quite take the hint. “That’s just it, innit. Your knocking woke me up and it’s keeping me awake.”

  “Then put in earplugs.”

  The man’s face was now bright red with anger. “Here’s an easier solution. Stop hitting the door. Dave’s either not in or he’s not answering; either way, you’re keeping me awake.”

  “He is in, and he has guests.”

  “That’s not my problem, is it? But your knocking is. I’ve got work tomorrow.”

  George took a right-handed grab of the man’s throat, lifted him off his feet, and pinned him against the wall. “If I was you, I’d turn my baldy arse around, go home and have a Horlicks. Because if you don’t I’ll give you first-hand knowledge of what it is I do for a living and fuckin’ cripple you?”

  The man’s skin was turning wine-dark. He tried prising George’s hand off his throat, but finally the lack of air and blood to the brain made him weak and compliant and he stopped struggling. George waited until his fight was completely gone and let go. The man staggered backwards on unsteady legs and fell on his arse. Dazed and dizzy, he rubbed at the large red handprint on his throat, coughing occasionally. Finally, he managed to get on his feet and backed away another few steps. “Just keep it down, okay?” he said, trying to maintain some dignity.

  “No. I don’t think we will,” George said. “Now go away and let us get back to our work.”

  A flash of anger showed on the man’s face and his body tensed.

  George beamed broadly. “Don’t go there. Seriously, don’t. Not unless you fancy having your baldy napper used as a fuckin’ battering ram.”

  Almost as if by reflex, the man’s right hand went back to his throat and rubbed it gently. He stepped back again until he was only a few feet from his door.

  “Atta boy. Now go back inside and don’t bother to come out again. And if the police turn up, I guarantee you we’ll come back after they’ve gone and put you in a fuckin’ coma. You clear on that?”

  The man nodded meekly and stepped back until his shoulder struck the doorframe. He walked through the doorway without breaking eye contact until he was inside, at which point he slammed the door shut, locked and bolted it.

  George Karagounis laughed, looked at Anthony, and said. “This isn’t working is it?”

  “Not really.”

  “They’re obviously not gonna let us in. And baldy-locks did have a point. This knocking business gets real old real fuckin’ fast.”

  “Dad said to keep them contained till he gets here.”

  “And they are, but they might be better contained if they’re in front of us at gunpoint.”

  “Dad’ll be pissed.”

  “And he’ll get over it.”

  “Whaddaya suggest?”

  “Keep knocking. And make it loud while I pick the locks.”

  Anthony lowered his monobrow. “Do you even know how to pick a lock?”

  “No, but Dad does,” George said. “That shit’s gotta be genetic, right?”

  “It’s a skill, you imbecile. So, no, it doesn’t.”

  George rummaged around in the holdall at their feet and found some brass lock picks. He leaned in towards the cylinder lock. “I guess we’ll see about that, won’t we?”

  18.

  Mark stared out of the living room window at plumes of smoke billowing up from nearby industrial stacks and tried to ignore the sound of incessant knocking that drifted in from the hallway. “Why don’t we just open the door and shoot ‘em?”

  Eric gnawed his fingernails on the sofa and fixed his narrowed gaze on a patch of wall near a flatscreen TV. His brow tightened and relaxed as he tried to think of ways out that didn’t involve his brother’s idiotic suggestion of tying sheets together and climbing down.

  “Because they’ll be ready for that,” he replied, glimpsing in Mark’s direction.

  “Says you.”

  “If they’d wanted to talk they would’ve done it by now,” Eric said. “Means they’re here to break bones and take money. That’s all they’re interested in. Terry’s thrown ‘em a deal.”

  “Still say we should shoot ‘em.”

  Derek nodded. “Totally agree.”

  “Duly noted,” Eric said, leaning back against the sofa. “You don’t think they’ll have guns?”

  Mark and Derek didn’t seem to care.

  “Trust me, they’ll have guns. They won’t be afraid to use ‘em, either,” Eric said. “Before you know it it’ll look like a John Woo movie and we’ll have armed response units sticking gun barrels up our arses. Don’t much fancy doing prison time, like.”

  “What if they decide to come in firing?”

  “They’re psychos, not idiots,” Eric replied. “They’re trying to keep us here. Waiting on reinforcements.”

  “Then we’re fucked if we don’t something, and now.”

  Eric narrowed his eyes in thought and then smiled. “But I do have an idea of how to get rid of ‘em. Temporarily, at least.”

  Mark moved away from the window. “How?”

  “The Karagounis lot run a breakers yard over in Stockton. When they’re not breaking cars for parts they’re bus
y putting them together. One thing those fuckers love more than breaking limbs are their vintage cars. Never go anywhere without ‘em.”

  “So?”

  “They love their cars, you see? More than money, more than sex, even more than smashing some fucker’s head with a baseball bat, they love ‘em.”

  “Not wanting to repeat myself…”

  Eric sighed. “Last year, a kid put a scratch in the paintwork of an MG that one of ‘em owns. A fuckin’ scratch. All of ‘em descended on that kid and his family like a tonne of horseshit. They dragged the kid out to their yard and tortured seven shades of shite out of him. And they dragged his dad too, just for the sheer fun of it. That’s how much they love their fuckin’ cars.”

  Mark finally seemed to catch on. “So, if something was to happen to them…”

  Eric smiled at him. “I’d say that their first thought would be to go running off to save ‘em,” he said, and added. “Even if only one of those pricks went, that’d increase our chances of getting out of here.”

  He turned and looked at his brother. “You fancy your chances against one?”

  Derek stood up and turned towards the hallway. “Considering I’ve put both those cunts down at one point or another, like, I’d fancy my chances one-on-one. Wouldn’t even need this bad boy,” he said, twirling the claw hammer that he was holding. “But, then, what’d be the fun in that?”

  19.

  Bellman put his hand on the mattress and tried to push himself off the bed. His heart was slamming against his ribcage, although every now and again it seemed to skip a beat or two. Sweat oozed out of every pore, soaking his clothes, and there was a huge damp patch on the duvet where he’d been resting. Bellman managed to swing his legs off the bed and sit upright, but was unable to go any further.

  He hung his head and panted. Every time he thought he’d caught his breath it went again, leaving him gasping, and dizzy spells made spots dance before his eyes.

  He tried to stand, but his legs were weak and buckled before he could even get up. A pain that felt like somebody dragging barbed wire across his heart made him clutch at his chest. Using the sleeve of his hoodie, he wiped his forehead and brow. A quick glance at his sleeve showed him how much he was sweating, the fabric was soaked.

  He lay down on his side and took deep, slow breaths. It helped a bit, but didn’t change the fact that he was getting weaker by the second. Whatever had gone wrong with his body wasn’t getting any better and he knew that he was in trouble. Regardless of what it was, heart attack, stroke, something else entirely, he knew he needed help and he needed it now.

  He was too weak to shout, so he grabbed his mobile and tapped out a message. He hit send and then closed his eyes. He needed to sleep; he was too tired for anything else. He just hoped that this was one particular sleep he was going to wake up from.

  20.

  “Who are you phoning now?” Mark said.

  Eric walked back-and-forth across the living room, his pace fast, his body so tight and tense he appeared to be hunched over. He pressed the phone against his ear and hissed. “Darren Travers.”

  Kandinsky looked at the ceiling with a look of despair. “Oh, for fuck’s sake…”

  “You got any better ideas?”

  “Give ourselves up,” Mark said with a sigh. “Better that than letting Thrombosis take the fuckin’ wheel.”

  “Can you think of anyone better?”

  “A fuckin’ dead kitten in a bag’d be better than that idiot.”

  “We don’t have a dead kitten in a bag, and I’ve tried everyone else. It’s either Thrombosis or trying to pull a Jedi mind-trick through the door. Fancy giving that a go?”

  Mark gritted his teeth. “Fine. But don’t come running to Daddy when it all goes wrong.”

  “If you were my Dad you’d just hit me with an empty whisky bottle.”

  Mark tried to answer but Eric held up his hand then pointed at the handset.

  “Hello, mate. It’s late,” said the voice at the other end of the line.

  “Yeah, Thrombo, sorry. I know”

  “Don’t like being called Thrombo, mate. I mean, it’s not right, is it?” Thrombosis said.

  “Sorry, Daz…”

  “Even me Mam called us Thrombo the other day… I mean, mate, that’s well outta order, innit? I mean, it stands to reason, dunnit? When your own mam starts using a derivative nickname, you’ve gotta draw a line in mud, dontcha?”

  “It’s derogatory and sand.”

  “What? Derogatory sands? What the fuck’re you talking about?”

  “The English language,” Eric replied.

  “What’s that gotta do with my problem?” Thrombosis said, his voice sounding angrier.

  “Nothing.”

  “Then why’re you calling? Or did you just call to wind me up?”

  “If you’d let me get a word in edgeways,” Eric snapped. “You’d probably find out that I’m trying to offer you a job?”

  “A job?”

  “That’s right. Gainful employment.”

  “Well, I am a bit short of cash.” Thrombosis said.

  “Then this’ll be right up your street.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Since when did you start getting fussy?” Eric said.

  “Since now. What is it and how much?”

  “It’s a rush job and it’s worth a grand.”

  “A grand?” Thrombosis said.

  “That’s right.”

  “When?”

  “Now.”

  “Now?”

  “That’s right,” Eric said.

  “Doing what?”

  “I need you to smash up a car.”

  “For a grand?” Thrombosis said.

  “That’s right.”

  “Not being funny, like, but whyn’t you do it yourself?” Thrombosis asked.

  “’Cause I’m in no position to,” Eric replied.

  “But…”

  Eric sighed and rubbed his face with his left hand. “And I’m in no position to argue, either. I need something doing now and I need somebody capable of doing it.”

  “Where is it?”

  “You know where Bell End lives?”

  “Yeah, five minutes from me lass’s place.”

  “Then you’ll know where to find us.”

  “What car is it?”

  Eric opened the living room window and looked down into the car park. He didn’t see anything. Then he angled his head directly below and noticed a car with a soft top in front of the lobby.

  “A green MG soft top.”

  “A sports car? A classic? You want me to smash a classic?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Ah, I dunno about that, mate. Seems a waste.”

  Eric turned towards one of the walls and placed his forehead against it. “Much like you’re doing with my precious time at the moment.”

  “Couldn’t I just steal it?”

  Eric started gently knocking his forehead against the wall. “Not unless you fancy the Karagounis family’s secret brand up your jacksy. Just smash the fucker and split.”

  “Karagounis?” Thrombosis said and paused. “Fuck that. Those clowns tortured a kid over a scratch. Whaddaya think they’re gonna do to someone like me? Get someone else.”

  “There is nobody else.”

  “Fuckin’ charming, that is,” Thrombosis replied and huffed loudly down the line. “Your last choice? Wha’ does that say about me?”

  “That I need you.”

  “That you’re desperate, more like.”

  “I need you,” Eric said.

  “Yeah, but only after everybody else’s given you the heave-ho.”

  “Fifteen hundred.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “Two thousand.”

  Thrombosis paused briefly. “Make it three, plus I’m first choice on your next job. Take it or leave it.”

  “I’ll take it.”

  Eric pulled away from the wall and stood upright.
He punched the air with his fist and breathed a sigh of relief.

  “But if they catch youse,” Thrombosis added, “you keep your mouth shut. Me name never gets mentioned, right?”

  “They’re not gonna catch us,” Eric said. “But it’s a deal.”

  “Sez you” he said and paused. “Look, I’m at me girlfriend’s now. Gimme five and I’ll get right over. But this better not turn to shite.”

  Thrombosis hung up. Eric did the same, then he heard a beep and looked at his phone display. He realised that the beep came from Terry’s phone. He’d received a text message. Eric brought it up on screen. His eyes narrowed as he read the message, then they closed for a couple of seconds, and his face went tight. He put the phone away and put his face in his hands for a few seconds. Eric looked at his brother in the hallway, chiselling at the hinges with a hammer and screwdriver, and said: “Forget about subtlety. Just shoot the fuckin’ locks off now.”

  Derek stopped what he was doing and turned in his direction.

  “Why?”

  “Because I think Bell End’s had a fuckin’ heart attack.”

  21.

  Darren Travers kept low and scurried through the darkness, using the shadows cast by the cars to his advantage. The car park security lights had both been smashed a long time ago, and what little light filtered in from the street was too weak to do any good. The MG was one of the few cars that he could make out, because it was parked close to the flat-block entrance and caught the light from the lobby.

  Moving from car to car, he stopped occasionally to catch his breath and look out for witnesses. The closer he got to his target the more he looked around, but the place was deserted. As soon as he realised that nobody was likely to come out and spoil his work Travers relaxed a little. He put down the holdall he was carrying and rummaged around inside. He brought out a baseball bat, pulled up his hoodie and approached the car.

  Even in the half-light from the lobby he could see that a lot of love had been lavished on the MG. Beads of rain clustered like fat jewels on the recently waxed paintwork. Every inch of the car gleamed and sparkled. He ran his hand along the bonnet, sending rain rivulets cascading down towards the front grille, and whistled his appreciation softly. Then he got a strong two-handed grip on the baseball bat and assumed a batter’s stance.