Anthony turned on his heels and sprinted back in the direction of the flat block. John watched until he disappeared and all he could hear was the distant wet slap of his footfalls. He walked back to the car, unlocked the boot and opened it fully. He took the man by the arms and lifted him until he was sitting upright. At this point, the man’s eyes snapped open and he began to scream with pain. John’s face twitched and he looked left and right quickly. The roads were still empty and he couldn’t see any faces staring down from the flat block windows. He knew he still had time.
He grabbed the man by his hoodie and slammed a couple of hard rights into his jaw. The second broke something in the man’s face, which crunched unpleasantly. He let out a brief groan and flopped back, drooling blood and spittle. John gave him a quick slap, but he didn’t stir.
He reached beneath the man’s armpits and dragged him roughly towards the car boot. John was big and well built, but the size and weight of the guy he was dragging made the whole thing difficult. It took one faltering step after another and a minute of struggling to get him where he wanted. He took a couple of deep breaths and lifted the guy upright, ready to be bundled into the boot.
It was at this point that a vehicle turned the corner.
The closer the vehicle came the slower it seemed to move. It was a big six-seat people carrier with purple paintwork and a sign on the side that read ABA Cabs. A jowly cab driver and four passengers pressed their faces against the glass, with expressions ranging from bewildered to horrified.
John stopped what he was doing, held his breath, and watched the vehicle as it glided past. He gave them his hardest stare, locking eyes with everybody in the cab, especially the driver. The cabbie grimaced as he realised who he was looking at, fixed his attention back on the road and the vehicle picked up speed.
John smiled briefly, until he realised the passengers were shouting and gesticulating at the cabbie. The vehicle didn’t get very far before it slowed down again, pulled into the kerb, and stopped completely. The passengers began scrambling out of the cab, although they were slow and clumsy, their voices loud and unfocused through alcohol. John tutted once he realised that he would need to change his plans.
He hissed, “You lucky bugger,” in the unconscious man’s ear and dropped him on the ground.
27.
Once he was out of sight, Derek stopped running and walked down the stairs at a leisurely pace. His side ached like hell and he stopped now and again to examine the wound. Every time he pressed the area close to the gash it leaked blood. He cursed quietly and looked back at the stairs, which were dotted with droplets. Derek crossed the lobby, cast an occasional glance back at the trail he was leaving behind, and exited the building.
The air outside was cool, so he tilted back his head and drew it deep into his lungs. He checked out the battered MG, marvelling at Thrombosis’ handiwork, and chuckled softly, although he didn’t linger very long. He walked in the direction of the estate, where they had parked the car, but stopped well before he’d left the grounds. He cast a glance at the hammer that was still in his hand and looked back in the direction of the smashed car. His better judgement told him that he should keep walking, do what Mark told him to, but he didn’t take much notice of his better judgement or common sense. He said fuck it under his breath and walked back towards the flat block.
As he approached the battered vehicle for the second time, Anthony Karagounis came sprinting around the corner. His face was red from the effort and he seemed to be struggling for breath.
Both men stopped moving. They studied each other in silence, eyes lingering over the weapons they carried.
“Only a faggot brings a hammer to a fist fight,” Anthony said.
Derek let go of the hammer and it clattered against the concrete. Anthony gave it a glance then locked eyes with his foe.
Derek smiled. “And only a wanker brings along a knife.”
Neither man blinked, nor broke eye contact, until Anthony tossed his knife aside. It rattled against the tarmac as it landed and the light from the lobby glittered on its blade. Anthony stared at it for a moment before smirking at Derek.
“Your friend, the one who smashed my car?”
“What about him?”
“His vandalising days are over.”
The big lad paused briefly and said under his breath, “Sorry about that, Thrombo.”
“And my brother?”
“Nowt a night in hospital and a visit to a good plastic surgeon won’t cure.”
Anthony gritted his teeth. “We gonna do this?” he said, his hands becoming fists.
“Fuck it. Why not?”
They rushed towards each other.
28.
Mark put one of Bellman’s arms around his neck and Eric took the other. They lifted the dealer, so that his toes barely touched the ground, and carried him into the hallway. They stepped past George Karagounis, who was still unconscious, walked to the next-door neighbour’s property and knocked on the door. Nobody answered, though they could hear shuffling from inside.
“Hey mate, we need a hand. Think Dave’s had a heart attack.”
More shuffling was followed by: “You told me not to come out.”
“That was the other bloke. They’re gone now.”
“Where?”
“Off torturing some small animals, or… how the fuck would I know?”
The door opened on the chain and the man peeked out, his expression wary. When he saw Bellman, he frowned, opened the door fully, and waved them into his flat. As they passed he saw George unconscious on the hallway floor, his face swollen and bloodied from the blows it had taken rendering him unrecognisable.
“What the fuck?”
Eric and Mark turned as they headed into the living room and looked at the man. His eyes were wide with surprise and he shook his head involuntarily, as if unable to fully process what he was looking at.
“He had an accident with a hammer,” Eric said.
The man stopped shaking his head and peered back at George. When he realised who he was looking at and what kind of shape he was in he cracked a smile.
“Good. Fuck him.”
The two men took Bellman into the living room and placed him on the sofa. His breathing was laboured and his clothes were drenched. He didn’t seem to know where he was and mumbled a long string of drooled vowels to get that point across. Mark told him to shut up, though Bellman ignored him and continued mumbling.
When the two men went into the entrance of the flat the man was already chatting on the phone, telling somebody at the other end of the line to come quickly because his next-door neighbour was feeling ill. As they passed, Eric tapped the man on the shoulder and leaned in close, saying: “You didn’t see us. We were never here.”
The man gave him a nod of the head, the thumbs up, and continued talking.
They entered the hallway and passed the still unconscious Karagounis, stopping briefly to make sure that he wasn’t about to come round. Stanton ducked into Bellman’s flat, picked up the holdall from inside the bedroom wardrobe and came back out. He shook the bag by its handle and listened to the loose rustling of the notes inside.
“Funny how money seems less remarkable when you’re actually holding it.”
Mark nodded absentmindedly. “If your brother hasn’t got that car, we might not be holding it for very long.”
“Even he can’t fuck that up.”
29.
Derek’s right was wild and hurt nothing but fresh air. Anthony Karagounis ducked beneath it and came up with an uppercut, which missed its target’s chin by an inch. The big lad pulled back and staggered a few steps. He was breathing hard, his face red with the effort. Both men had been swinging for a couple of minutes, but all they’d got for their troubles were a couple of scuffed connections and a shortness of breath.
Derek watched Anthony’s feet, then let his gaze drift up to his opponent’s hands and up again to his eyes. He stepped forward, feigned a punch and watch
ed Anthony’s movements as he skipped back. Derek took a couple of deep breaths and decided to take the initiative as well. He moved towards Anthony like a bull, making his charge look as uncoordinated and lumbering as possible.
About four-feet from his target, Derek faked a stumble and cast a split-second glance at Anthony’s feet. He put his left foot down and geared up for a right-hand haymaker. Derek stopped abruptly, let the breeze of Anthony’s right caress him as it rushed past, and slammed a hard left into his jaw. The connection was a beauty and sent Anthony stumbling.
He came to a stop and just about managed to stay upright, but his eyes were as glassy as marbles and just as unseeing. So when Derek danced towards him he didn’t have a clue what was going on, and instead wobbled around like the ground was about to collapse beneath his feet. Derek threw a right hook that was so hard and fast it broke Anthony’s jaw in three places, spun him around and propelled him face-first into the lobby window. He left a trail of blood, drool and greasy handprints along the glass as he tried desperately to stay upright.
The reflection Anthony saw looming in the glass was a blur, much like everything else, but he knew what it was. He turned on his heels and his hand went to his pocket. As the blur reached out, Anthony pulled a black handle from his pocket and hit the button.
Derek saw the lobby light glint on the steel before Anthony thrust out his arm. Instinct told him what it was and he moved out of the path of the blade and slammed into the window. He grabbed Anthony’s knife arm before he could turn his body and take another attempt. Despite this, he still managed to rotate slightly and hit Derek with a left hook, but he was off balance, and still woozy, so the connection was weak. Derek used his weight to turn Karagounis back round and slammed his knife arm into the glass. Then he smashed his fist into the man’s elbow, which broke with a resounding crack. Karagounis screamed as his arm went limp and the blade fell to the ground and clattered across the pavement. Derek finished him off with another couple of blows to the jaw. Anthony slid down the glass and collapsed into a seated unconscious slump on the floor.
The big lad leaned back against the window, closed his eyes and took several deep breaths. When he opened them again, his brother and Mark were looking down at the unconscious man with their mouths hanging open slightly.
“What happened to the car?” Eric asked.
“Slightly… held up,” Derek replied between gasps.
“So are we, now. Thanks to you.”
30.
The orange-skinned girl in the strapless dress sprayed spittle in John Karagounis’ face with every insult she screamed, egged on by a pretty young Asian woman who peered over her friend’s bare shoulder and interjected the occasional yeah and fuck you. Standing either side of her were two big, flabby men in tight T-shirts and jeans, trying to look scary, even though both were too pissed to be much help. The jowly cab driver hung back, looking afraid, and occasionally cast glances at his vehicle.
“Whatchoo doing with this gadgie?” the girl screamed.
Despite the fact that it was the fourth time she’d asked that question, John kept calm and answered once again: “Just waiting for the police.”
She leaned in and gave him another spittle bath. “Betchoo never even dialled the bacon. Fuckin’ liar.”
“Why don’t you try not swearing for once and see where that gets you?”
“Whatchoo tryna say, like?” she said, giving him the iron finger to the chest.
John looked down at the finger striking his chest repeatedly. “Best keep your finger to yourself. That is, if you do want to keep it.”
The girl increased her finger stabs. “Whyn’tchoo fuckin’ make us, like?”
John let out one sharp huff. “Back off. Now.”
“Whyn’tchoo try backing off and wait for the fuckin’ pigs?” she hollered.
“I’m happy with that,” John said.
“Bullshit,” she said and turned to her friends. “Fucker’ll probably leg it when our backs is turned.”
John smiled without humour. “Just get back in your car, missy, and I’ll deal with him.”
The girl’s expression turned angrier and uglier, and she leaned in closer. “Who you callun missy, you bearded fuck?”
John’s eyes were as lifeless and black as coals, but inside he felt his rage building. “You need to calm down,” he said and let out another huff. He turned his back on her, more for his own sake than hers. The urge to hurt these people boiled in his stomach, waiting to burst out like molten lava, and he knew that once he started he wouldn’t be able to stop. Even though he hadn’t called the police he knew they would be on their way by now. There had been too much noise, too much nonsense, for the residents to ignore, so he intended to sit in his car and wait for everyone to arrive – no point in trying to run now.
The girl took John’s gesture to be general ignorance and raked her false talons down his neck. He hissed and grabbed the wound, feeling blood, as the nails had gone in deep. He turned around to face her, and only managed to avoid losing bits of skin and beard because he pulled his head back at the last second. She raked at his chest and screamed when he grabbed her hand and spun her like a top. The girl thumped into John’s car face first and fell to the floor with a dazed yelp.
One of the T-shirts hollered the girl’s name and charged in, swinging wildly. John caught him by the right wrist and applied some quick two-handed pressure. The wrist snapped with a loud crack, sending bone shards through the skin. The man squealed and looked at the wound, which bled profusely, his eyes wide with shock, his face as white as his T-shirt. John gritted his teeth and kept the pressure on the man’s wrist until the bones cracked again and tendons and flesh tore, until the wound sprayed blood. By the time John stopped pressing, the hand hung by a few shreds off a ragged stump of wrist.
The man staggered a few feet, murmuring quietly, looking in disbelief at the wounded hand. Finally, his eyes fluttered as they closed and he dropped to the floor in a trembling heap. The Asian girl let out a weak scream and sprinted for the safety of the cab, with the driver close behind her.
The second T-shirt rushed forward with a blade and took drunken swipes at the air, missing by a good three feet. John picked him off with a couple of fast jabs and a hard right, which sent him sprawling into the road. He was back on his feet faster than John had anticipated and weaved towards him, crouching low.
“Drop the knife and run along,” John said, “and I might just forget how angry I am.”
Tires screeched as the cab sped away, leaving only the bitter stench of burnt rubber in the air. “Your ride’s gone,” Karagounis said, smiling slightly.
The man let out a battle cry and rushed forward. John let him come, then at the very last moment stepped calmly to one side, stuck out his foot and watched the man slide across the floor on his stomach. John dropped on the man’s back and pinned him down before he had the chance to compose himself. They fought for the knife.
The man tried swinging his arms at his assailant, but it was almost impossible to land a blow with his face pressed into the wet road. John moved his weight forward until he’d pinned the man’s knife arm down. The man tried to buck him, but John was too big and heavy to throw and he soon started to tire.
John grabbed the man’s thumb and bent it back until the bone gave with a crack. The man screeched and tried to fight again, but John slammed his face into the ground and, whilst he was dizzy and distracted, pulled the knife from his grasp.
John stabbed the man twice in the backside, pushing the blade into the man’s anus both times, forcing it in deep and moving it about for extra damage. The man shrieked, curled into a foetal ball and screamed incoherently when he realised just how badly cut he was.
John got to his feet and smiled down at his victim. “If you’re lucky, you won’t need a colostomy bag for the rest of your life,” he said, walking towards the girl. “But I don’t fancy your chances.”
The girl looked around in horror as she realised ju
st what she had unleashed, and started crying for help. As John closed in, she knew that help wouldn’t arrive in time and attempted to get to her feet. Her unwieldy six-inch heels kept skidding on the wet tarmac as her movements got ever more panicky. At the last minute she tore off her shoes but it was too little too late as John was already on top of her.
He sat on her chest and pinned her to the floor by resting his legs on her arms. Then he stopped her from struggling with several hard slaps to the face. His sweat spattered her skin as he leaned in for a closer look. If you took away the stupid orange tint she’d given her flesh the girl was really quite pretty. It seemed almost a shame to put an end to that.
John wrenched her right arm from beneath his leg and held it up in front of her face. The blade of the knife rested against her forefinger. Hysterical sobs emanated from the girl along with strings of incomprehensible words that slurred into each other on their way out of her mouth. John pressed the blade into the flesh near the knuckle. “I told you to keep your finger to yourself.”
As the blood streamed onto her face, the girl’s screams were high and brittle enough to break glass.
31.
They saw the flashing blue lights bounce off the walls and roofs of nearby buildings long before they got a glimpse of the carnage that had brought them there. As the car turned onto Cargo Fleet lane they saw three ambulances, two police cars and an extra van pulled up alongside John Karagounis’ bashed up Austin Healey. The police had blocked off the road in both directions and there was a lot of activity going on; people being loaded onto gurneys, several officers struggling to get John into the van, using nightsticks to help him on his way, and a small crowd was starting to form, even at this hour. The sightseers held up their phones and captured the footage for posterity, many of them grinning like jackals.
“Looks like Thrombo’s in some real shit,” Eric said, turning left, away from the ruckus. “Poor bastard.”
Bone Breakers (A Stanton brothers thriller) Page 9
