The Drop

by Howard Linskey

  ‘Well first I want to give you a message,’ Tommy Gladwell told me cheerfully then he glanced at the Russian who’d forced me into my car, ‘Vitaly,’ he said simply. Without a second’s pause the guy punched me so hard in the guts I doubled up rapidly and fell face first onto the ground. I went down so fast I didn’t even put a hand out to stop my head from smashing into the concrete floor. I tried to get up but the Russian had hit me with such force I couldn’t even move. I felt blood trickle down my forehead. The pain was like nothing I’d ever experienced before. Christ, this bloke knew what he was doing.

  ‘That’s from my lad Stone,’ he told me, ‘the fellah you put in hospital with a broken jaw. He’s got more stitches in his face than an eiderdown,’ I made a note to get even with Stone if I ever got out of this mess, which right now seemed unlikely. ‘You’re lucky,’ said Gladwell, ‘he wanted me to break your jaw and carve your face up, an eye for an eye and all that, but I told him I needed to have a little chat with you first. Maybe there’ll be time for breaking jaws later.’

  ‘You’re making a big mistake,’ I told him when I finally got enough breath back to speak.

  ‘Am I?’ he asked ‘what do you reckon? Do you think Finney will come after me with his nail gun?’ he laughed and so did his Russians.

  ‘You won’t be fucking laughing when he does,’ I said and they hauled me to my feet.

  ‘There’s something I want to show you,’ he said, ‘come on!’

  Two of them picked me up, their big hands wedged under my armpits. They moved so fast I was being dragged along, the tips of my shoes scraping against the concrete as I was propelled to the other end of the room. They were still laughing, in obvious high spirits, sure of themselves. The door up ahead was wooden and they used my head to barge it open, rattling my teeth and stunning me in the process. Inside was a smaller room, which contained a little row of offices to one side.

  It was pitch dark, so they flicked on the light in the first office to illuminate the scene. At first I could barely register what it was. It looked like some big animal had been mangled at an abattoir. Then it hit me with a sudden shock of realisation and I knew, just knew, that we were lost. There was no hope for any of us.

  It was Finney - or what was left of him when the Russians had all had their fun. His eyes were open wide and staring back at me but there was no life left in them. His face had been mutilated with what looked like a serrated knife, and the flesh around the wounds was red and swollen and puffed up like he had taken a hell of a beating. His hands and legs had been fastened to the big metal chair with handcuffs around each wrist and ankle. Someone had had the foresight to cement the chair into the ground beforehand because they knew from his reputation how hard he would have fought. Christ, how he would have struggled to get at them.

  It looked like he had been tortured to death at first but then I noticed the ligature around his neck, which had bitten tightly into the skin. They’d finished him off with some sort of wire garrotte. It explained the open, sightless eyes that I couldn’t tear my gaze from. Someone had calmly stood behind him and tightened it round his neck until Finney finally choked to death.

  I was sick on the floor then.

  ‘Pick him up,’ ordered Gladwell and I was dragged up by my arms again and taken along to the next room. This one looked like an abandoned walk-in fridge, with all of the racking taken out. They turned the light on.

  ‘As you can see, we’ve been busy,’ Gladwell told me. Northam was easier to recognise. They’d not messed him up nearly as much as Finney. Our bent accountant looked the same as usual in fact, except for the bullet hole in his forehead. They’d done him just like they did Geordie Cartwright. ‘And it’s still early,’ Gladwell reminded me, ‘after all, we’ve got all night.’

  ‘What do you want from me?’ I managed to ask, my voice a low rasp.

  ‘I’m not sure now. When I ordered you to be picked up we didn’t have the full picture but it looks like I’ve already got what I need. The accountant, Northam, he was very keen to cooperate, once we showed him what we’d done to Finney. We didn’t have to hurt him at all, though we hurt him a bit anyway to make sure he was telling the truth. He told us all about the business, filled in the gaps for us. By the time the lads picked you up we had it all anyway. We reward people who help us and he got his reward. His worries are over.’

  ‘Where’s Bobby?’

  ‘All in good time.’

  ‘What have you done to Bobby?’ he ignored me. It seemed he was keen to let me know how clever he’d been.

  ‘What do you think of my boys eh?’ he asked me, ‘heavy duty aren’t they? Took out your doormen in double-quick time. I met them in Amsterdam running guns, dope and women. We took a little of all three,’ so Gladwell had no scruples about whether the women in his knocking shops were volunteers or not. Some poor, young lass leaves her village in the Ukraine looking for a better life in the west and instead ends up being raped by a dozen strangers a day with none of the money going back to her. ‘And we stayed in touch,’ he made them sound like old pals from Uni.

  ‘Vitaly here was a captain in the Russian army. Do you know what the Spetsnaz is?’ I nodded weakly but he told me anyway, ‘Russian special forces. They are just as hard as our boys, but prepared to go that little bit further, if you know what I mean. I put that down to Chechnya. Your average Russian soldier didn’t want to get sent there, not with all the atrocities the rebels were prepared to commit but my boys here? Well, it was manna from heaven to them. They loved it. When they caught one of those rebels they’d cut off his ears, his nose, his dick, while he was still alive’ and he laughed. ‘I’m not kidding you,’ I believed him, ‘then they’d leave him somewhere his mates would find him - because they knew that the greatest weapon you can have is fear. You’re going to understand that by the time you leave here.’

  By now I was starting to hope I’d end up like Northam and not Finney. That seemed my best option; to tell Tommy Gladwell whatever it was he wanted to know and hope they’d had enough of inflicting pain for one day. Then it would all be over.

  Gladwell wasn’t finished showing off. I guess he’d been waiting a long time to show the world how clever he was. ‘They were just the right people to help me take over a city. My dad wouldn’t have the stomach for it. He’s too old and has no ambition any more. I’m different. I’m expanding our business and you lot, well, you’re in the way. My boys have been watching Bobby and his whole crew for months but we had one big problem; Finney. If we took out Bobby’s enforcer and left Bobby around he’d be well on his guard wouldn’t he? But we couldn’t get rid of Bobby and leave Finney on the streets. No way. That would be far too dangerous. I couldn’t imagine Finney seeing sense and throwing his lot in with us. No, he was too stupid for that. Trouble was, you rarely saw them together these days, Finney and Bobby. But then, lo and behold, a miracle; Finney moved into Bobby’s house,’ his smile was broad, ‘can you imagine how we felt when we heard that? Was it your idea? I bet it was. It would have been a good one too, if your enemy was a couple of hard knocks from Glasgow but I’ve got five heavily-armed former members of the Spetsnaz on my payroll.’

  Five? I’d seen four. I wondered where the fifth was hiding.

  ‘What do you want from me?’

  ‘What can you give me? Go on, convince me, tell me why I shouldn’t just kill you. You might be begging me to kill you in an hour when I let these lads at you. You see, they really enjoy their work.’

  I shook my head. I didn’t know what the hell he wanted and I had no idea what information I could give him that he didn’t already have.

  ‘That cunt Mahoney,’ he hissed it angrily, ‘wouldn’t even shake my hand when he came to see my father. No respect,’ he told me, ‘well I think he respects me now don’t you?’

  Tommy was pacing up and down now, tight lipped, like the memory of the humiliation was fresh in his mind, ‘you shook my hand. I remember that. You were the only one who did and that is the reas
on you are still alive, for now.’

  That gave me an insight into the man we were up against. A forty year old with the chronic lack of self-esteem you get from living your whole life in the shadow of your old man. Tommy Gladwell hadn’t been allowed to order a cab without running it passed his daddy first and now he was going to take us all down. Yet I was still alive, for now, because of a handshake.

  ‘Where’s Bobby,’ I asked him again, ‘what have you done with him?’

  ‘He’s in there,’ said Gladwell and he jerked his head towards the next room. Vitaly shoved me out of the room we were in and up against the door of the next one.

  ‘Open it,’ he ordered.

  I pushed the heavy wooden door and it creaked open. I was peering into the darkness of a gloomy store room but I couldn’t see anything, ‘Bobby?’ I called.

  Silence.

  Vitaly pushed me into the room and turned on the light. At first I thought the figure in the chair was dead or unconscious, the body slumped, the silver hair streaked with blood from a blow to the skull. ‘Bobby?’ I called again and the head slowly came up.

  Bobby Mahoney had been tied to his chair just like the others. I reckoned that was the only thing keeping him upright. His head lolled back again, he looked drugged or maybe it was just the effect of the beating they’d given him.

  ‘Bobby,’ I said it again, quieter this time, willing him to say something back to me but it was all he could manage just to return my gaze.

  Gladwell was at my side, ‘I’m going to give you a chance boy,’ he told me, ‘just one, so think fast.’ Vitaly gave an order in Russian and one of his men handed Gladwell his Makarov, the Soviet era military pistol that was the weapon of choice for Eastern Europeans in our game. It was widely available on the streets of every city in Britain because it was cheap as chips.

  Gladwell took out the magazine and ejected all of the bullets then he held it up so I could see and put one bullet back into the magazine before slotting it back into the gun. ‘You have a choice,’ he told me, ‘either this bullet goes in Bobby Mahoney’s brain or it goes in yours.’ Bobby finally made a sound. He actually laughed. It was a big, deep, mad laugh but I was astonished by his balls nonetheless. I wish I could have been that defiant.

  ‘What?’ was all I could manage.

  ‘Tell me,’ he urged, ‘I want to hear you say it,’ he cocked the pistol and pressed it hard against my skull, ‘him or you? Go on.’

  I looked at him then I looked at Bobby, who was still laughing, like Gladwell had just said something really funny.

  I didn’t want to say it. I didn’t want to say anything.

  ‘Say it!’ ordered Gladwell.

  ‘Him,’ I croaked the word out, too ashamed to look at Bobby.

  ‘Good lad,’ he said like it was the correct answer and he lowered the gun.

  Vitaly and one of his men grabbed me and pushed me forward till I was no more than a few feet from Bobby then they released their grip. Vitaly pulled his own pistol and stood to one side of me, then pressed it against my head.

  ‘One move,’ he told me, ‘one move and… ’ he made a sound like a gun firing. I got the message.

  Gladwell walked round to face me, standing between Bobby and me. ‘I’m glad you feel that way because you are going to have to earn your life today. We both know I need Mahoney out of the way,’ he told me reasonably, ‘so I want you to do it for me.’

  ‘What?’

  He couldn’t be serious. He didn’t really want me to do it, surely.

  Tommy Gladwell pulled my arm up then he pressed the Makarov into my right hand and wrapped my fingers round the cold metal of the gun. Before he released it into my grasp, the Russian pressed his pistol harder against my head.

  ‘One move,’ he reminded me.

  Gladwell stepped away and walked behind me. I was left holding the gun in my outstretched hand and it was pointing straight at Bobby. He was staring back at me, serious now. The laughter had stopped.

  ‘Do it,’ urged Gladwell, ‘shoot him and walk away.’

  ‘Fuck off,’ I managed, ‘you’ll kill me anyway.’ I was still holding the gun in my outstretched hand. I could feel the barrel of Vitaly’s gun pressing into my skull and sweat forming on my forehead.

  ‘No I won’t,’ he assured me, ‘do this thing and we are even. I’ll put you on a train to London. You have my word.’

  ‘Your word?’ I didn’t believe he could be serious.

  ‘You’re basically a civilian. You’re no threat to me. What the fuck are you going to do on your own - without Finney, without Mahoney, you’re nothing! But, like I said, you have to earn your life. You have one round. Use it on Mahoney and live. Try and use it on us and Vitaly will drop you where you stand. But I won’t wait all day son. In a moment I’ll start counting down from ten and when I finish, Vitaly will kill you anyway if you haven’t done what I’ve asked. Then he’ll kill Mahoney.’

  This didn’t make any sense to me. None at all.

  ‘Then why get me to shoot him?’

  ‘Because I want to make you do it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To prove that I can.’

  ‘What’s the point?’

  ‘Oh fuck this,’ he suddenly lost patience, ‘Vitaly… ’

  Vitaly cocked his gun, ‘No!’ I shouted, quickly, ‘I’ll do it.’ I was just desperate to buy some time. That’s what I needed. Time, to think, Christ, I needed time to think.

  ‘Ten…’ said Gladwell.

  ‘Wait,’ I said, my hand shaking so badly there was a chance I’d miss, even from here. I lowered the gun just a little.

  ‘Nine… ’

  ‘Fucking do it,’ said Bobby suddenly. Those were the first words he’d spoken since I walked in the room. His voice sounded incredibly weary all of a sudden, like he was tired of the game.

  ‘Eight…’ I levelled the gun again, pointing it straight at him.

  ‘Good lad,’ said Bobby, ‘you’re doing me a favour,’ and he actually managed a grim smile of encouragement.

  ‘Seven… ’

  ‘Do it, they’ll do it anyway,’ Bobby was selling the idea to me.

  ‘Six…’

  ‘Get out of here, find Sarah, look after her,’ so that was his reason.

  ‘Oh, she’s being looked after,’ said Gladwell and the Russians laughed.

  ‘Five.’

  I tried to squeeze the trigger but I couldn’t. I tried again but my arm shook. I knew I was crying now like a little girl, tears streaming down my cheeks, my face all snot and tears. I let my arm drop and the gun fell to my side. My head went down and all I could see was my shoes. Next to me Vitaly said something that sounded like he was swearing in his own language.

  ‘You stupid cunt,’ Bobby told me.

  ‘Four.’

  I tried to raise my arm again but I couldn’t. I just wanted to lie down on the floor and let them shoot me so it would all be over.

  ‘Three…’

  ‘Do it you spineless fucking cunt! Do it!!’ Bobby was screaming at me now.

  ‘Two… ’ I raised the gun again and pointed it straight at Bobby’s head.

  He grinned, ‘I’ll see you down in hell Tommy Gladwell you fat little queer!’

  ‘One.’

  ‘Do it,’ screamed Bobby, ‘fucking do it!’

  So I did. I blew Bobby Mahoney’s brains out.

  THIRTY

  ...................................................

  I couldn’t take my eyes off Bobby. I couldn’t tear them away from what I had just done. That’s why I hadn’t even realised what Tommy Gladwell had been doing while I was killing my boss. It was only when his extended arm slowly came round in a big arc towards me that I realised he was holding a mobile phone. ‘Smile son,’ he told me, ‘you’re on Candid fucking Camera,’ he handed the phone to Vitaly who put it in his inside jacket pocket, ‘nice phone Vitaly,’ he said and then he laughed. It was a big, gleeful, triumphant laugh because he knew he had won.
I didn’t care about that just now. All I cared about was the fact that I had just shot Bobby Mahoney through the head - and Gladwell had filmed the whole thing on Vitaly’s mobile.

  I took one last look at Bobby; his head forced back by the bullet, brain matter splattered all over the white wall behind him, then they took the empty gun from me and hauled me out of the room.

  ‘Leave a couple of your lads to deal with the bodies,’ Gladwell told Vitaly, ‘put them in the incinerator.’

  The Russian just nodded without enthusiasm. Why did I keep getting the impression Tommy Gladwell didn’t really have a clue who he was dealing with? Six months down the line, with the city under their full control, it could just as easily be Gladwell who was staring down the barrel of a Makharov, on his way to the incinerator. I couldn’t imagine these guys wanting to play the hired hands for long. They looked too bloody sure of themselves. None of that really mattered though. One way or the other, I was history.

  I didn’t expect for one minute that Tommy Gladwell would honour his promise and let me go, even when they didn’t shoot me straight away, even when I was taken from the building, bundled into the back of the Porsche Cayenne and driven away. I was vaguely aware that my car was gone but I didn’t care. I still expected Gladwell to order them to pull over somewhere quiet, drag me from the car, and shoot me in the face, just like they had done to Geordie Cartwright, Jerry Lemon, and Alex Northam; just like I had done to Bobby Mahoney. As we drove back into the city I still didn’t believe it. I couldn’t have done it. I hadn’t just murdered Bobby Mahoney in cold bloke. I wasn’t muscle, I wasn’t a gangster, not really, but now it seemed I was a murderer. How the fuck had that happened?

  We were getting closer and closer to the bright lights of the city and I had to stop myself from actually believing they weren’t going to kill me. I tried not to even think about the possibility they might let me go because then, when they didn’t, it wouldn’t hurt me quite so much. I was numb, inside and out, and the quicker this hell ended then the better it would be. I played out the scene in my mind over and over; everything that was said before it happened, me firing the Makarov like I was doing it in a dream, the bullet hitting the target, smacking into Bobby’s head, jerking him back, jolting his body in the chair like it was a crash test dummy and all the blood that blew up out of the back of his skull, painting the wall behind him, sending dark red splashes out over the chipped, white plaster. Jesus Christ, what had I done?