A Bad Death: A DS McAvoy Short Story

by David Mark

  ‘Saved the best for last,’ says Pharaoh, sweetly. ‘Blaylock and Swainson shared a wing with Mitchell Spear.’

  ‘Spear?’

  ‘One of the faces who ran Francis Nock’s operation in Newcastle. Moved to Bull Sands around the same time as Blaylock. Spear walked out about a fortnight before the kid died and hasn’t come back since. I’m sure with a bit of creative thinking you could talk to Owen in connection with some alleged sighting. Speak to a few others too. It’s a decent enough cover. Make it up to Owen, buy him a Kit-Kat, get yourself home for supper.’

  McAvoy chews his lip. When they first met he would have thought that cutting any corners with the truth was diabolical. He did things entirely as the guidelines said they should be done and kept his personal feelings buried beneath layers of textbooks and bureaucracy. He would never have considered going on to another police service’s patch and trying to make amends to a convicted prisoner by raking over a case that has already been solved.

  Pharaoh looks at him softly. ‘Is it that you want to apologise? Or is it that you want to put your side of the story?’

  McAvoy forces himself to meet her gaze.

  ‘I just think that we have things to say to each other. Things I should have said. I was always too scared to even write to him. He looked awful, boss. Real pale and bruised. I did that to him. If this friend has died and there’s more to it, maybe I could help put things right.’

  Pharaoh shakes her head, as if marvelling at the simplicity of his thinking.

  ‘He might tell you to fuck off. Most people would, considering.’

  ‘I just want to help.’

  ‘They’ll put that on your tombstone.’

  ‘I’m not being buried. I want to be scattered.’

  ‘I promise that when the time comes, you’ll be scattered somewhere pretty – they just won’t burn you first.’

  Pharaoh stands up and squeezes his arm. ‘Talk it through with Roisin. She might have something to say about you raking up the past. You’ve been through a lot. All I’m saying is, be careful. And if you want to go and talk to him, I’ve got your back.’

  McAvoy watches as she puts her sunglasses back on and pulls her biker jacket tight across her chest.

  ‘Do you think I did wrong?’ he asks her, staring at the wall.

  ‘If you did, it’s understandable,’ she says. ‘Forgivable, at least.’

  ‘No,’ says McAvoy, and then repeats it more firmly. ‘No, it’s not.’

  Chapter Four

  The dead man lies beneath the scratchy woollen blanket and feels his own dead breath settle on his face. The men who are trying to open the door are cursing one another. Blaming one another for their inability to get inside this small, tumbledown shed on the allotments at the back of the football ground.

  The man on the bed doesn’t stir. He has grown used to biding his time.

  Even though the men outside are making enough noise to wake the dead, Raymond Mahon sees no sense in rushing his resurrection.

  Death suits Mahon. He has long looked as though his face is half decomposed. Though he is a tall and well-muscled specimen, it is his face that holds the attention. Despite the many plastic surgeries, it is still a thing of horror. It looks as though his face has been stitched together from ragged flaps of other people’s skin. He is a patchwork of lurid pinks and leathery browns, stretched tight across the skull and stapled to the jawbone. There is still a hole in his left cheek, and were it not for the scarf he wears across his face, his teeth and tongue would be visible as he speaks. It is impossible to tell the colour of his eyes. Large sunglasses perch on his nose, touching the brim of his flat cap. With his leather jacket, black trousers and military boots, he seems to be assembled entirely from clothing. He could pass for the Invisible Man.

  Were he asked for his thoughts on his recent demise, he would probably say that not many people ever knew he was alive, and of those who did, most are dead themselves. As a young man he gave himself over, body and soul, to the criminal who would control the North-East of England for the next fifty years. That man was Francis Nock. It was Mahon’s honour and privilege to enforce Mr Nock’s will. Mahon killed Mr Nock’s enemies. Mahon kept Mr Nock safe. Mahon served countless years in prison and in hiding because, in doing so, he spared Mr Nock from incarceration. Mahon was shot in the head and had his face eaten by pigs because Mr Nock made a mistake. And Mahon cared for the old man in his final months, feeding him his pills and changing his bed sheets and keeping his legend alive, even as other criminal outfits circled his territory like hyenas sensing a wounded animal. Last year Mr Nock died. So did Mahon. He plunged over a clifftop with one of Mr Nock’s enemies in his hand and disappeared beneath the black water that pounded the rocks off Flamborough Head.

  Mahon survived the fall. The man in Mahon’s grip took most of the impact, cushioning his body as they slammed into the hard, barnacled stone. Waves pulled Mahon under. Held him down. He was aware only of a cold, crushing sadness, the vicious emptiness of his grief. He tried to give himself up to the sea. Instead, he was pitched on to shingle and sand. For an hour or more he lay on his back, watching storm clouds disperse and re-form in the black sky, twisting and dissipating, like smoke around charred wood. Then he realised he was alive. Alive, and dead to all who knew him.

  It hurt to stand but it hurt to lay still. Hurt to walk, but he walked anyway. He felt Mr Nock’s absence the way a dog yearns for its master. He felt no freedom at being free of the man who held his leash for so many years. Were Mr Nock in the ground, Mahon would have lain down beside his headstone and put a bullet into his own brain. He saw no reason for his continued existence. He stole a car in the pretty village that looked down on the cove where his body washed ashore. Started driving with no real sense of direction, instinctively heading north. He passed police cars on the way, a strobe light of blue illumination screeching past him towards the chaos he had left behind. In that moment, Mahon wondered whether he was spared because Mr Nock still needed him to perform a service. He began to wonder whether perhaps he could find purpose in revenge. A passage of Shakespeare came back to him. Something about grief softening the heart. ‘Think on revenge and cease to weep’.

  Mahon decided to fix himself.

  To get well.

  And then to kill every last fucker who helped stop Mr Nock’s heart.

  He finds himself thinking warmly about what is to come. Throughout his long life, Mahon dispatched death dispassionately. He understands the enormity of such a thing: to snatch a person’s entirety; to deny them all they will ever be. He killed pragmatically, without joy. That has changed these past months. The men he kills now, he kills for comfort. He kills them because he fucking well wants to.

  The object of Mahon’s wrath is a criminal outfit known to the police as the Headhunters. They started out down the coast in Hull and quickly branched out. Established crime outfits up and down the country were suddenly hit with demands for a share of their profits and territory. The crime bosses didn’t know how to fight back. The new organisation was a shadow. It operated through anonymous phone calls and quiet, faceless threats. The Headhunters were masters at finding young, ambitious and talented men within established crime families, and offering them the world. Nine times out of ten, ambition would win out. They would cut the head off their own outfit and assume control, kicking up a standard protection fee to the organisation that spotted their potential and quietly greased their wheels. Mr Nock held out against them and died for his troubles. In the following months, the territory he controlled for so long passed into the hands of the Flemyng brothers. They pay their tributes to the Headhunters and have the freedom to swagger around Newcastle as if they own the damn place. To Mahon they are an effrontery. They act the way they think they ought to, having been raised on gangster films and The Wire. To Mahon, the North-East is a graveyard; a monument to Mr Nock. And every footstep they take disturbs his rest.

  Mahon is no longer as physically able as he used to be. E
ven before he tumbled from the cliffs, he was beginning to feel his age. Now he walks with a limp and his left arm is next to useless. He has a permanent ringing in his ears and, when he wakes, the rattly wheeze that emerges from his chest puts him in mind of the ragged breaths of the dying. Mahon doesn’t know how long he has. But he knows he will kill as many Headhunters as he can before the end.

  ‘That’s it! Kick it. Now!’

  The wooden door of the shed refuses to yield under the pressure of the men’s repeated kicks. When he chose this building as a place of execution, Mahon switched the hinges on the door jamb. The door is meant to be pulled open, not pushed.

  Mahon’s breathing and heart rate are the same as they would be if he were sitting in a rocking chair reading a book. Beneath the blanket, he looks like a cadaver laid out for autopsy. ‘Right, fucking out the fucking way!’

  Mahon sees the scene through the eyes of the men who have come here to do murder. They have to make up for their amateurish attempt at surprise. They have egos to massage. They have a boss to impress. And now they’re standing in the cramped confines of a little wooden shed, breathing in the smell of loose compost and peat. They’re taking it in. Dark in here. Seedlings in plastic trays on an ancient wooden bench at the rear. A spindle-legged wooden chair next to a shelf covered in paperbacks. A lump on the thin, uncomfortable-looking bed to their right.

  ‘Thought you’d got away, did you?’ asks the lead figure, advancing. ‘This is our city, you prick. No secrets from us, you prick!’

  Mahon doesn’t move.

  The man who has spoken is slightly built. He’s the youngest of the three Flemyng brothers and the one who is enjoying power the most. His name is Tyrone and he has killed two men in his short, brutish life.

  ‘The sleep of the dead, eh, Tyrone?’ says the fat, tracksuit-wearing lad behind him. His name is Bunce, and he has been Tyrone’s friend since school. The third man is older and taller. He’s holding bolt cutters in one hand and a large silver meat cleaver in the other. When he was younger he was the sort of boy who ate worms and broke the legs of kittens. Now he gets paid to hurt real human beings. He does it very well.

  ‘Spear, you prick. You dead already?’

  Mahon listens. A curse. The loss of temper. Two steps and then the blanket is pulled back from his face.

  He opens his eyes. Lets Bunce see him for what he really is. Then he discharges the shotgun he has been holding in both hands.

  Bunce’s face goes through the back of his head and splatters over his companions in a vile shower of blood, skull and brains.

  Mahon swings his legs off the bed and discharges the second barrel. The tall man with the cleaver slams back against the wall, holes in his torso big enough to see through.

  ‘Spear? Fuck!’

  Tyrone has forgotten that he has a gun in his coat pocket. He’s too busy wiping his friend’s brains from his eyes to think clearly.

  Mahon hits him in the throat with the butt of the shotgun and watches him fall to his knees. He hits him again, but not hard enough to knock him out. He just wants his attention.

  ‘I’m not Spear,’ he says, conversationally. ‘You were right to come here, in some respects. This is his dad’s allotment. And I know you’d heard rumours he was back on the patch, that he was still loyal to the old boy and bad-mouthing the Flemyngs. I know that because I made sure you got to hear those stories. Spear’s long gone, son. He’s probably got himself a lovely tan by now. He was loyal, you were right about that. He told me lots of interesting things about the deals you were making behind Mr Nock’s back. But because I’m big hearted, I let him live. I’m not going to make you the same offer. I’m going to kill you. I’m going to kill your fucking brothers. I’m going to kill every Headhunter who even breathes in a way that Mr Nock wouldn’t like.’

  Mahon bends down, arthritically, and picks up the shiny cleaver from the floor. He likes the look of it. Decides to think of it as his own.

  ‘Three brothers,’ he says. ‘It never works out well. The middle child’s usually the problem in families like yours. For me, it’s the oldest lad that’s the tricky proposition. He’s the one doing the prison stretch. Hard to get to, but not impossible. Now, the middle lad shouldn’t be any problem at all. I’ve heard that he’s not as clever as you and your oldest brother, which suggests that he’s on a par with some mould in a coffee cup.’

  Mahon pats down Tyrone, oblivious to the blood and gore that comes off on his hands. He takes his mobile phone and gun and wallet.

  ‘You maybe didn’t know that I existed,’ he says, looking down at the sobbing gangster. ‘You maybe thought I was a myth. But everything you heard is true, son. You upset Mr Nock, and his monster comes and ends your life.’

  Tyrone seems to shrivel inside his coat.

  ‘Nock’s dead! This is how the game is played! It’s all about the game!’

  Mahon shakes his head, sadly. He rubs a hand against his face and breathes in fresh blood. Eventually he nods.

  ‘You’re right,’ he says, crouching down and gently lifting Tyrone’s chin so he can look in his eyes. ‘You have every right to try and take control. You have every right to hurt people and make money.’

  For a second, Tyrone allows a bird of hope to flutter across his face. It dies as it hits the electrified fence of Mahon’s expression.

  There’s a gleam of light as Mahon holds the cleaver up. Its blade reflects the less devastated side of his face, and for a moment, he looks almost like a person. Then he changes the angle, and becomes a mask of nightmares made flesh.

  ‘And I have every right to cut your fucking head off.’

  Chapter Five

  Bull Sands Prison, Mablethorpe. Wednesday. 9.17 a.m.

  McAvoy is scrunching up his eyes like a baby who doesn’t like the food in his mouth. The wind was whipping in off the sea as he walked across the car park, turning the rain and sand into tiny missiles that stung his face. Now it feels as though there is something cold and menthol covering his irises. He’s forcing himself not to rub them. Has his hands pressed into his armpits, as if he’s wearing an invisible straitjacket.

  He opens his eyes long enough to check the time. Closes them again, hearing his heart the way others might hear a ticking clock.

  According to the gadget on McAvoy’s phone, this is the feast day of St Barbara, patron saint of artillerymen and gunsmiths, whose name should be invoked when seeking protection from lightning and fireworks. He isn’t sure what to do with the information, but having viewed the clouds forming over Hull when he left this morning, he figures he may be putting in a call to St Babs before the day is out. He likes the idea that there is a St Barbara. It has a certain Yorkshire-ness to it that he finds reassuring.

  McAvoy starts blinking, hoping to clear the blurriness in his vision. Winces at the sensation.

  The door to the visitor suite swings open at the same moment that he realises what he must look like, hunched up and fist faced and dripping water all over the pale blue carpet. He alters his pose. Stops as he sees the man before him. Sags a little.

  There is no guard accompanying Owen. He stands there on his own, his back to the white wooden door and strands of his grey-black hair plastered across a face so thin that it looks as if the bones beneath the flesh hurt. The scar upon his forehead is a slash of white. His nose has been broken and reset. As he extends an arm, McAvoy notices that two of the fingers on his right hand point away from the others, having been inexpertly repaired.

  McAvoy realises he is staring. Sorts himself out. Takes a step forward and offers his own huge hand. As he closes it around Owen’s cold palm, he feels as though he is folding it over the body of a dead bird.

  ‘Owen,’ he says, and it comes out too quickly. He says it again.

  Owen is looking down and away: a dog that has been beaten too many times and expects nothing but more hurt. Yet there is a tension in his shoulders, as if he is holding himself in check.

  ‘Do you want to sit down? Is an
ybody joining us? The officer just told me to wait here so I don’t know if they’re coming back or leaving us to it or what.’

  Owen lifts his eyes and gives a tiny nod of his head, gesturing at the door to McAvoy’s rear.

  ‘We could go for a walk,’ he says.

  ‘It’s grim out,’ says McAvoy. ‘Pouring down.’

  ‘I like the fresh air,’ says Owen, softly.

  McAvoy considers his options. He doesn’t yet know what Owen thinks of him and isn’t sure he wants to be out on a wet, blustery day with a man who has spent four years inside because of him.

  ‘We’ll just have a seat for now,’ he says, and moves to one of the tables. They are laid out in rows, with plastic chairs either side. They make the Portakabin look like an examination room.

  ‘You’re the boss,’ says Owen, and they pull up seats. McAvoy takes off his long cashmere overcoat. Underneath, he wears a grey three-piece suit and his old school tie, knotted in a perfect double Windsor. It moves every time he swallows.

  They consider one another for a moment. They look as though there should be a chessboard between them.

  ‘I’m pleased you lived,’ says Owen, at last. ‘Goes without saying, I suppose.’

  ‘You saved my life,’ says McAvoy, and puts a little laugh into the sentence to try to lessen the drama of it. He fails. Hears himself sounding ungrateful and churlish. A blush begins to rise up his neck.

  ‘You’re looking well,’ says Owen, sitting back in his chair and looking at him properly. ‘Nice suit. You used to be all polyester and hiking boots back in the good old days.’

  McAvoy twitches a smile. ‘My wife,’ he says. ‘Got her hands on my wardrobe and restyled me. I have no say in it.’

  ‘You look good.’

  ‘Thanks,’ he says, and is about to add ‘so do you’ when he realises how phony this would sound. He catches himself before he speaks and Owen notices.