Cutter's Firm

by Julie Morrigan

‘Thanks, I really appreciate it,’ I say, and I do. It’s probably not the first time Paula’s had to babysit someone’s wife or girlfriend at one of these dos, it’s just bloody embarrassing that it’s mine.

  I go back through to the party and as I get there, the little bird with the pink hair pops up. ‘Happy New Year, Mr Cutter,’ she says, and she gives me a peck on the cheek and one of those smiles.

  ‘Happy New Year to you, too,’ I say, and I take her by the hand and lead her through to the private suite I have there. I only have half an hour, but it’s long enough to restore my equilibrium. I wonder at the wisdom of taking her through on my own and not doubling up with Liam – God knows, I don’t want her getting any ideas about being ‘special’ – but needs must. I don’t want anyone from the club for my next wife, I want someone different, someone with a bit of class. I need to cast my net more widely.

  Back in the club I see Tommy heading back in, flexing his fist as he comes. ‘What’s up?’ I ask.

  ‘Harry from Middlesbrough,’ he says, and I see the skin on his knuckles is broken. ‘Him and Mickey were gawking and laughing; me and Liam sent them on their way.’

  ‘Nice work,’ I say. ‘You’d think they’d have learned their lesson by now, eh?’

  ‘After what we did to Bobby? Aye, for sure.’

  Harry’s the main man and Mickey’s his second in command. Bobby used to be the third wheel. ‘Where is he these days, do you know?’

  ‘I heard he had a nervous breakdown. Just seems to be Harry and Mickey now.’

  Bearing in mind we kidnapped Bobby, beat him senseless, striped his cheeks, left him tied to a chair overnight in a lock-up with a dead man for company, then Big Liam stabbed him in the bollock with my flick knife, I’m not too surprised to hear this. Fuck him. If you can’t handle the life, don’t try to be a face.

  26: Jack

  It’s New Year’s Eve and I still haven’t told Mam and Dad about Livvy. I can’t find the words; I just can’t bear to cause them that much pain. But Mam will be cooking a special dinner tomorrow and I can’t sit at the table with that place set in front of the empty chair knowing what I know.

  I just wish they could hear it from someone else.

  Mam gets in from work just after five and I have a pot of tea and a plate of biscuits ready. I’ve put a leaf up on the table and I get them both to come and sit with me. I know it’s daft, but this isn’t the sort of news you hear in a comfy chair, it’s sitting-round-a-table news.

  ‘What is it, our Jack?’ Mam asks, immediately twigging that something’s up.

  ‘I’ve got something to tell you,’ I say. ‘I spoke to someone who works for Cutter the other day and I asked if they could try and find anything out about our Livvy.’

  ‘Was that the girl you met the other night?’

  I nod. ‘Natalie, she’s a decent sort.’

  ‘And did she know anything?’

  ‘She found something out, yes.’ I stare at the table cloth; I can’t say a word. There’s been a spark of hope in Mam’s eyes despite the odds having always been against the news being good, and the next sentence I say will kill that spark forever. Can I do that to her?

  ‘Tell us,’ says Dad. ‘No matter what it is, just tell us, please.’ His voice is gruff, rusty from disuse, and his eyes are already bright with tears. I look at them both and I realise they aren’t stupid. The very fact I’m not dancing with delight tells them the news is bad.

  ‘Apparently Cutter pushed Livvy so far, made her so miserable, that she got a gun and–’

  ‘A gun!’ exclaims Mam.

  ‘And shot herself,’ I finish.

  There’s silence, just for a moment, then Dad says, ‘Where is she? Where’s my little girl? Do you know?’

  I shake my head. ‘No, I’m sorry, not yet. But I’ll find out and I’ll bring her home.’

  He starts rocking backwards and forwards, silent tears rolling down his cheeks, and then Mam starts making this awful keening sound. It’s raw, pure grief, the kind of pain you can’t put into words. I’m crying too, but for all we share the loss, we’re each in our own private hell. It shouldn’t be, but when I reach out to take first Mam’s hand, then Dad’s, it’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done. And when they take their hands away and cover their faces with them, it’s a bright pain cutting through my soul.

  After I don’t know how long, all of us just sitting there, together but a million miles apart, Mam gets up. She goes over to the settee and pulls the newspapers out from under the cushion, that’s where she normally puts them before they go out in the recycling bin. She shuffles through them to find the paper she wants, then ruffles through it to find the page she wants, then she comes back to the table and collapses into her chair.

  ‘Here, our Jack,’ she says, pointing to something on the page before passing it to me, ‘tell her. Get in touch and tell her. We know the police won’t help so let’s see if the press will.’

  I look and it’s Millie Redman she’s pointing to, the journalist who wrote the story about the little girl who got killed on the coast road. I scan the story and it mentions both the girl and some poor woman who’s missing her daughter. I scan the words and see the name of Cutter’s gym and I wonder if this Millie Redman has started to put two and two together.

  ‘I will, Mam,’ I say; ‘just as soon as the New Year’s in.’

  ‘No, our Jack, do it now. You’ve got your computer, you can send her an email. There’s an address there.’

  I look at her and she’s nodding, then I look at Dad and he is too.

  ‘Okay,’ I say, and I head up to my room, the paper in my hand. I’m glad to be on my own for a while, to be honest.

  When I come back down half an hour later, Dad’s back on the settee with the whisky and Mam’s crying in the kitchen while she peels potatoes to make chips for dinner.

  ‘Have you done it?’ she asks when I go in.

  ‘Yes,’ I tell her, ‘but with the holidays we probably won’t hear anything before next week.’

  ‘That’s okay, the important thing is it’s taken care of. We didn’t let the year turn with something that important undone.’ She puts the peeler down, comes over to me and takes my face in her hands. One’s warm and the other cold and a bit damp, from the potatoes. ‘Thank you, son. It took courage to do what you’ve done and I’m grateful to you. At least we know what happened now.’

  She pulls my face towards her and kisses my forehead. It doesn’t feel brave, though, it feels like turning a knife in an open wound, but as horrible as the news is, I know we’d all rather know. I also know deep down we all started preparing for the worst a long time ago.

  27: Millie

  It’s New Year’s Eve, I’m on the streets with Carl the photographer, and it’s bloody freezing! We took advice from the local homeless shelter about how to dress to try to keep warm, but you’re on a hiding to nothing out in the open in December. We haven’t even seen the worst of the season yet, either; winter has barely bared its teeth. I’m grateful the weather’s quite mild for the time of year; at least there’s no rain or snow and the wind’s not too high.

  We do the rounds of the places we’ve been told the homeless tend to congregate and I ask some people to tell me their stories and for permission for Carl to take a picture, and some of them agree. It doesn’t take long for me to feel like a fraud; like those MPs who live on benefits for a week to show how easy it is to manage, but without taking into account how such an existence week after week frays the nerves and erodes the soul. When you’re on the streets, you can’t even go for a pee in peace; it’s inhuman.

  I think about what Tommy’s doing tonight – going to a big fancy party at Gold – and wonder if I’d have enjoyed that any more than this. Then I remember seeing a look of – was it relief? – cross his features when I told him I was working and I wonder whether I’m being paranoid or perceptive. Hard to tell, some days.

  It’s a long, cold night but I know at the end of it I have enough
material for a powerful feature and I hope it’s enough to loosen a few purse strings and get some money to the shelter to help people.

  So it is on New Year’s Day, before it’s even properly light, I head off home and I’m grateful to have a home to head off to, even if the furniture has been ripped to shreds.

  28: Cutter

  The mobile goes and it’s Charlie; it sounds like he’s in the middle of a war zone, not the middle of a car showroom.

  ‘What the fuck’s going on?’ I ask him.

  ‘Christ, Mr Cutter, it’s like fucking Gaza here! Harry Hamilton and Mickey Wilson from Middlesbrough just blew the windows in with a sawn-off!’

  ‘They did what? Are they still there?’

  ‘I’m not sure; me and Dek’s just keeping our heads down.’ I hear sirens in the background. ‘Somebody must have called the police,’ he says.

  ‘Well, if two plate glass windows got blasted with a sawn-off, I can’t say I’m all that surprised,’ I tell him. I suck in a breath and blow it out, thinking fast. ‘Is there anything dodgy lying around?’

  ‘Nothing visible. We’ve got MOT certificates, of course, and the motors have been clocked, but there’s nothing immediately apparent; no cause for them to root around.’

  ‘Okay, deal with it as best you can; I’ll be there soon.’ Christ, it’s only the second of January! What the hell kind of year are we going to have?

  When I get to the showroom the place is a mess, there’s broken glass everywhere and a bunch of ruined motors sitting in the middle of it all. I do what I can, which isn’t much, to be honest. Once everyone’s gone and the windows have been boarded up I head back to the safe house with Dek and Charlie.

  The others are there, too, and Dek’s explaining how it all went down.

  ‘There was a banging on the window and when I looked up, I saw Harry standing grinning and Mickey holding the sawn-off.’

  He goes on to explain how Harry pointed first at Dek, then Charlie, and drew a finger across his throat, then Mickey raised the gun and the lads dived for cover as he blasted the windows out.

  ‘It’s a right mess,’ he tells the others, who haven’t seen it for themselves, ‘the showroom’s a wreck and about ten motors have been trashed.’

  ‘It’s a fucking liberty, is what it is,’ I say. I’m furious. I’ve been made to look like a mug by a couple of stupid Smoggies and now my reputation is on the line.

  ‘How are we going to retaliate?’ asks Wayne.

  ‘We could lift Mickey, give him the same treatment we gave Bobby the other year,’ suggests Tommy.

  I’ve thought of that and I don’t think it’s a strong enough message. ‘No,’ I say, ‘this needs to be dealt with visibly and swiftly, and on their ground, otherwise we’re opening the floodgates to a world of trouble.’

  ‘What do you have in mind?’ Tommy asks.

  ‘What’s that pub the fuckers drink in?’ I ask.

  ‘The Hope and Anchor,’ says Wayne, so fast I wonder if he’s had a pint or two in there with them.

  ‘That’s the one. We’re either going to do them in there in front of everybody or soon after they come out. I haven’t decided yet how public I want to make this. I’m keeping it tight; just me and Liam.’

  ‘How much damage are you going to do?’ Charlie asks.

  ‘I’m not sure about that yet, either. I haven’t ruled out putting the fuckers down. I might settle for a break, I might want an eye.’

  ‘I can get acid,’ says Doc, and I like the sound of that very much.

  ***

  Two days later, Liam and I are heading to Middlesbrough in a stolen motor, the stuff I’ll need in a backpack on the back seat. ‘They’re showboating,’ I say.

  ‘What do you think set them off?’ Liam asks.

  ‘I think it might have been Wayne,’ I tell him, ‘he’s recently been indiscreet.’ I explain about the camera footage and see his shoulders tense when I repeat what was said about him.

  We lie in wait outside the pub, me with my backpack on, and follow Harry and Mickey when they leave. It’s quiet, dark, no one around, just those dipshits stumbling along, talking about going for a kebab, and us following, silent as shadows.

  We’re confident we won’t be seen, so we just need to pick our spot. They do us a massive favour by nipping down a cut, a narrow strip of pavement with a tall fence either side marking the end of the back garden of each property backing onto it. It’s ideal. The time for hiding is over, so I stride up behind them whistling a merry tune. As they move aside to let me pass, I grab Harry and kick his feet out from under him and he’s on the deck before he sees it’s me. I’ve got him pinned down with my foot on his chest and Big Liam’s got Mickey in a full nelson.

  ‘Cutter!’ Harry’s eyes are wide and full of fear.

  ‘That’s Mr Cutter to you. You and this piece of shit tore up my car showroom. Why did you do that? Eh?’

  ‘We … we …’

  ‘We what?’

  ‘We fucking hate you!’ says Mickey, showing more balls than his boss. ‘What you did to Bobby–’

  ‘I fucking hate you too,’ I tell him, ‘but I don’t blast your property with a sawn-off shotgun. And what was all that crap at New Year about?’

  ‘We just wanted to talk, but—’

  ‘If you want to talk, you set up a meet like a civilised human being, you don’t gatecrash a fucking big event.’

  ‘What did you want to talk about?’ Liam asks.

  ‘Business. We thought you might sell the car lot.’

  ‘Why?

  ‘We heard it wasn’t doing very well, and we reckoned we could use it.’

  ‘So you gatecrash a party, then when you get thrown out of it you blast the car showroom windows out in a paddy?’

  Harry shrugs as best he can in the position he’s in. From the look of him, he thinks this is all in hand and he’s going to walk away. He’s wrong. Still with my boot on his chest, I take heavy industrial rubber gloves out of my backpack and put them on, then get out the bottle of acid Doc got me and take the top off.

  ‘What the fuck?’ he says, panicked, when he sees what’s going on. ‘No, man, don’t do that! There’s no—’

  Whatever he was going to say next is lost to the world as I sprinkle acid on him and he screams as it hits his skin and sizzles and smokes. He shields his eyes with his hands. His roguish good looks are a thing of the past by the time I’ve finished, but it’s no great loss and every time he looks in the mirror he’ll remember me and how stupid he was to try to cross me.

  Harry’s out of the game, he’s writhing and wailing on the deck, so I put my last question to Mickey. He’s trying very hard to be free of Liam, but he doesn’t stand a chance.

  ‘What made you think the car lot wasn’t doing very well and I might sell it?’

  He looks at me and he doesn’t want to tell me, but he’s fucking going to.

  ‘Who told you that the car lot wasn’t doing very well and I might sell it?’ I say, rephrasing it slightly.

  ‘We were talking about building up the firm. New blood and that.’

  ‘Who? Give me a name.’ The word had to come from my firm and while I might have my suspicions, I want to hear him say it.

  He looks up and down the cut, but he’s going nowhere. I reckon I have a couple of minutes tops before plod gets here because somebody will have heard the racket Harry’s making and surely to God even in Middlesbrough some concerned citizen will make a call. ‘W … Wayne—’ Mickey says finally, and that’s enough for me. I don’t need to hear any more.

  I nod at Liam and he pushes his captive to one side and jumps clear, then I throw the acid left in the bottle at Mickey and his screams blend with Harry’s as we leg it back the way we came.

  29: Jack

  I have one more person left to tell about Livvy – Bex deserves to know. The two of them were close right through school and it’s only fair she hears what happened. I go to her house and we sit on the edge of her bed. It�
�s no easier telling her than it was telling Mam and Dad. We both end up in tears, it’s horrible, and not knowing where Livvy ended up makes it worse, somehow.

  I go home afterwards and lock myself in my room. I can’t face people. I can’t cope with my own misery, never mind theirs, and for all I know that’s selfish, I have to do it to get through this.

  30: Millie

  I had a very thought-provoking email waiting for me when I got caught up after New Year. Someone called Jack Armstrong got in touch to say he’d read my article on the dead girl and the missing couple and he had some information that might be of interest. He also mentioned his sister had worked for Cutter and had been missing for over three years, but that they’d just recently found out what happened to her.

  It all sounded very interesting, so I got in touch and I’m on my way now to meet him and his folks.

  As I pull up outside the house, I can’t help but compare it with Claire Cutter’s place. I doubt the ex-Mrs Cutter would have settled for somewhere like this when her marriage broke up.

  The door’s answered by Mrs Armstrong; she invites me in and I see a man sitting on the settee drinking whisky and a young lad hovering in the kitchen doorway, waiting for the kettle to boil. Shortly afterwards three of us are sitting at the table with mugs of tea. Mr Armstrong is still on the settee with his whisky.

  ‘He can’t cope,’ his wife tells me. ‘When our Livvy went missing we confronted Cutter, and he humiliated Bill. He’s never been the same since.’

  ‘It’s not his fault,’ Jack says, and I reckon he’s very likely got a point. He’s got scars on his cheeks and I remember Claire Cutter and her face, then I wonder about Norm and the scar on his cheek.

  They go on to tell me about Olivia Armstrong, Jack’s older sister, and how Cutter groomed her and used her and how, so they’ve just recently been told, he drove her to suicide and then dumped her body somewhere. Jack also tells me about what was done to him, how he was beaten, cut, raped, framed and sentenced. And then he tells me about the children at the caravan park. He keeps looking at his mam while he talks and I sense this is the first time she has heard about this. He names the names of the people he saw at the party and I can scarcely believe my ears. This is dynamite, but I’ll need something to back it up, something more concrete than just the word of some young lad with a grudge and a criminal record. Don’t get me wrong; I believe him. But my editor will take a bit more persuading to print something like this.