‘Problem is,’ I go on, ‘I need to find out about Riggs. I think he might be onto me.’
‘Whoa… go easy bro,’ he says and the hairs on the back of my neck twitch. I’m not sure if it’s because he called me bro or because a warning from him is one to be worried about.
‘What can you tell me?’
‘He’s good. Shit never sticks to him. It all looks legit but a lot of it’s fake. Top end stuff. Not your crappy Rolex knock-offs. Premium brands and high fashion, all mixed up with kosher businesses. No one’s ever been able to pin anything on him.’
‘So what makes him so dangerous?’
‘To start with he’s a twisted bastard. A fuckin’ psycho from what I’ve heard.’
I’ve always been able to reassure myself that John’s reaction in the bank was some kind of pre-emptive, self-defence. It’s a stretch I know; justification for shooting a complete stranger in the face point-blank with a sawn-off 12 bore. But it’s the only way I can still think of him as my brother. From what he’s saying, though, in the hierarchy of criminals, Riggs is off the scale.
‘Others always take the fall for him,’ he continues. ‘There’s plenty in here would like to see him gone.’
‘All because of some counterfeit goods and dodgy dresses?’
‘Think about it, numbnuts. It’s big money. Creates big risks. Once you’ve got an empire like that, you’d do anything to protect it. Surround yourself with thugs and pay them well. Create enough daylight between the top man and the operations and it’s almost impossible to trace it back. That’s Riggs, if you listen to any of the jabber in here.’
‘So, what’s the connection with Herb?’ I ask.
‘God, you’re so fuckin’ naïve; sometimes I can’t believe we’re related. Of course there’s no love lost between those two. Join the dots.’
‘Really?’
‘For Christ’s sake, Mickey! Riggs was in a massive car crash, years ago. Still walks with a limp. Remember Long’s wife died in a crash? Like I said, join the dots, Sherlock.’ I’m thinking he’s listened to too much jabber and is starting to believe his own bullshit.
‘Bit of a stretch isn’t it?’
‘Take it or leave it. Deadly enemies or not, one thing’s for sure, they’re both in the same game. That makes them rivals whichever way you look at it. And Long’s way out of his depth.’
‘The bloke that rang me said I need to choose which side I’m on.’
‘Huh! Good luck with that!’
‘Jesus.’ I look away and my mind starts to wander. ‘How do you even get to be like that?’
‘Money,’ he says. ‘He’s got fuck-all else.’
‘No family?’
‘The business is his family.’ He pushes his chair back and raises his hand to indicate he’s ready to go back to whatever hell exists behind the grey door. The guard behind him takes a step forward, but then John changes the signal to a single index finger, prompting the man to retreat like an attentive waiter. My big brother leans back in even closer. I can smell his rancid breath and I try not to pull away as he finally adds: ‘Especially now his old woman’s disappeared.’
‘Really?’
‘Rumour is she went out one morning a few weeks ago and still hasn’t come back.’
‘What, just up and left?’
‘Hit, more likely. They’re still waiting for a body to turn up.’
‘God, that’s enough to screw anyone up.’
‘Yeah!’ He smirks. ‘Lightning striking twice.’
‘What?’
‘Well that’s what made Riggs the vicious bastard he is.’ He glares at me like I should know what he’s talking about.
‘Lightning?’
‘Well it’s not the first time, is it?’ He’s losing patience with me and I can only look back long-faced, like a banker without a bonus. ‘It happened to his kid brother too.’
‘Did it?’ My eyes widen.
‘Christ, where have you been?’
‘So, were they… close?’ It’s a stupid question and he punishes me for it.
‘What, like us?’ He leans back and sneers at me through yellow teeth. ‘More like junior Krays, those two.’
‘And he just disappeared?’
‘Urban fuckin’ myth among those in here that knew him. The lad was only eighteen.’
‘When was that?’
‘Long time ago. Late eighties. Around the time I was nicked,’ he says, and a muscle in my neck twitches.
‘So… what happened?’
‘Riggs was just a rookie back then,’ he says. ‘Thought some of his gear had been blagged. And he finds out about this other gaff. Nowhere near his own manor, and for some reason he decides that’s where it is. Sends his little bro in after it. Big mistake.’
‘Why?’ I mouth but no sound comes out.
He turns to the prison guard and they exchange nods and he scrapes back his chair. As he gets up he leans in like he’s going to kiss my cheek and as his stubble scuffs my face I feel a spot of his saliva tweak the soft folds of my ear. But it’s his words, cruelly mimicking my whisper, that make my skin crawl.
‘The boy… was never seen again.’
As he walks away, part of me feels like following him through the grey door. Instead I sit here and let the walls close in around me.
Criminal Fraternity
I’m sitting in mid-afternoon traffic, driving back from Wandsworth, but my head is somewhere else. The events of late-January 1988 flash through my mind and I realise how hard I’ve tried for most of my life to suppress them. There’s something strangely therapeutic about letting the memories play out. And there’s a new angle I’m being forced to consider…
It was almost one in the morning and I was hiding behind an old shed in the back garden of a house a mile from home. Dad was at work and John was out drinking with his mates. He seemed to be going out at night a lot, often getting home in the early hours. I’d told Mum not to wait up. At seventeen it was unusual for me to go out so late, and so I’d had to lie to her. I’d never done that before. She was settled in front of the telly for the night and, as luck would have it, an old school friend had phoned for a chat. That provided the cover I needed. I told her I was going to see a mate who just broke up with his girlfriend. I said he was in a pub getting drunk and needed someone to talk to, so I’d offered to pick him up and get him home. I couldn’t believe she fell for it.
I left the car parked on the road and walked the last few hundred yards. I’d been told the best place to break in was the side window. The instructions were clear. The path was dark and narrow and the window was old and rotting. All I had to do was break the small pane at the top. With several layers of duct tape over the glass, a sharp blow with my elbow shattered it with a muffled crunch. Standing on the window ledge, I reached in and stretched down to easily lift the handle on the lower window. I tried several times to keep the handle disengaged while I pushed with the same arm against the glass to try and open it outwards. The swollen frame was held firmly in place on rusty hinges and I couldn’t get enough leverage to force it open. I tried pulling on the frame from the outside, but with nothing to grasp I couldn’t shift it. I didn’t have any hardware with me to jemmy the frame as I’d been told it was always best to go light and nimble. So I had to resort to Plan B.
It bothered me that I had to deviate so soon, but if I was going to complete the task and earn his respect, I at least needed to get inside. It was such a big piece of glass to try and break with my elbow and it was going to be a lot noisier. I unrolled more tape, lots more, and found a large stone in the back garden. I managed to make the first crack without much more than a dull thud. The hardest part would be stopping large pieces of glass falling outwards and smashing noisily on the ground. I pushed against it with my shoulder. It flexed, though not enough to break quietly. I had to hit it again, and that time it splintered. Only a few fragments fell inwards. The rotting wood did me the favour of gripping all the outer pieces and I was able
to take out two or three large shards and place them carefully against the wall behind me. I wanted them out of the way for when I made my getaway. More pieces came free until the last one was hanging like a giant fang. I didn’t notice it was cracked, and as I wiggled it to release it from the wooden groove it snapped and I was left with a small fragment while the large corner piece fell out and shattered on the concrete path. I ran back to the shed and watched from the darkness. Ten minutes felt like an hour, but when I was sure no one was coming to look I went back and climbed in through the opening.
Inside, the place was surprisingly tidy given the run down facade and, although the layout was unfamiliar, I was able to move easily from room to room. With a torch in one hand and a large holdall in the other, I started compiling a mental inventory of the contents of the endless shelves lining the walls. It was more like a warehouse than a dwelling and I was amazed by the array of goods stacked floor to ceiling. My old school holdall was going to be totally inadequate. That problem was soon addressed in the front room where I found large bags and suitcases in all shapes and sizes. It was quality stuff; Louis Vuitton, Gucci, Mulberry. My problem was going to be staying focused and not overdoing it. I grabbed two of the large bags and headed to the next room. Devoid of shelves, and any other fixtures, this one was filled with rows of clothes rails and each one was loaded with polythene-wrapped dresses and outfits. It was like being backstage at a fashion show. I didn’t quite know where to start and I began wishing I hadn’t left the car so far away. That’s when I heard it.
The crunch of glass underfoot sent a bolt of terror through me. I dived between the rows and stayed silent. I had to hold my breath to stop my lungs from giving me away, even though my heartbeat could probably be heard in the next street. I stayed there motionless, forcing my breath to escape in long whispers, and having to stop myself from then gulping it back in. Seconds crept by and all the time I could hear muted footsteps in the hall and, one by one, in each of the downstairs rooms, until finally, torchlight beamed around the room, turning the covered garments into translucent ghosts. Without searching for long, the light receded and the sound of footsteps became exaggerated by the creaking of stairs. Floorboards took up the load overhead.
I decided to make my move and got up from behind the rack and went to the door. I could see the room ahead of me down the hall where I came in. I’d have to cross the foot of the stairs to get to it. I hesitated and lost valuable time. I knew I had to leave then but something wasn’t right. I’d left my bag along with the other two behind the rails. Another instruction rang in my head: whatever you do, don’t leave anything behind. I had to go back. I still had time. The footsteps upstairs had moved to the front of the house. I went back into the room and grabbed my holdall but its handle got caught on the bottom frame of the end rail. It started to glide on wheels across the rough wooden floor behind me. Before I realised what was happening it struck an uneven floorboard and, as I looked back and tried to unhook the bag, I saw the rail falling towards me. In slow motion, the garments began sliding along the pole, adding to its momentum. Although I caught the metal bar cleanly, its shifting load was uncontrollable and the heavy wooden hangers started clattering to the floor. For a fleeting second I held on to prevent more items from falling, but it was too late. I had to get out. I let the rail go and it crashed thunderously to the ground.
In no time I was out in the hall and running towards my exit. I should have kept moving, but at the foot of the stairs I couldn’t stop myself looking up. Staring back at me with eyes like headlamps was a lad of about my own age. He was standing on the half landing and for a second he looked about as terrified as I felt. Before I could move, his face seemed to narrow and his mouth set into a grimace and, with a deafening shriek, he launched himself down the stairs towards me.
I didn’t see the knife until it flashed past my face. I held his arm but he was stronger than me. Then he lost his balance and I wrestled him to the ground. He brought his hand around to try and stab me below the ribs. I managed to grab his arm again. I was on top with the weight advantage. He kept yanking his arm, trying to free it from my grasp. I was preoccupied with the knife. I didn’t even notice his knee rise up until it connected with my groin. The scream of shock and agony died in my chest. The air had already left my lungs. I rolled to the side, doubled-up on the floor. Excruciating pain radiated from my nuts into the pit of my stomach. He wasted no time and swung the blade at my head. I pulled away and kicked his supporting leg from under him. He was sent sprawling back to the ground. I was finally able to take a breath. Air rushed into my chest and adrenalin coursed through my veins. The nausea in my throat subsided.
Again I grabbed for the arm with the weapon. This time I got a firmer grip around his wrist. With my other hand I pushed his face into the bare floorboards. He struggled to slide his head from under the heel of my palm that was pinning him down. There must have been a splinter pointing out from the edge of a plank. And he yelped like a whipped dog when it pierced his cheek. He turned his head towards me. I saw the thick end of the sliver of wood jutting out below his eye. He stopped struggling momentarily. I relaxed my grip too. He snatched his hand away from me. Again thrusting the knife towards my face.
As he did, I turned my head to the side. I grabbed his sleeve at the elbow as his arm arced towards me. Not enough to stop the speed of his lunge, but enough to change its course. The blade connected with something soft. I braced myself for the impact to reach my brain and explode my senses.
Nothing. The body beneath me continued to writhe wildly. But something was different. Its energy was no longer directed at me; its struggle was against another force. It jerked and convulsed but no longer fought. The fight had also left me and I pulled away, not understanding my repulsion as something sprayed across the room like the spout of a fountain, pulsing to the sound of music. The bitter taste on my lips made me gag as I got to my knees and looked down through stinging eyes. There was a warm, sticky fluid, as black as oil in the darkness, soaking into my shirt and dripping from my face. The movement of his body slowed to a rhythmic judder and a shiny, viscous pool spread outwards and around his head. At its centre, glistening like rubies, the hilt of the knife hung loose from an opening in the side of his neck. About a third of the blade remained in the wound. It flashed red with a receding pulse. The seeping blood finally slowed. Then it stopped.
Bile burned my throat as I emptied my stomach onto the floor. Don’t leave anything behind. But I just ran.
Mea Culpa
The image of me covered in a stranger’s blood, running from the house headlong into Herb, is the last memory I have of that night. I assume he must have calmed me down, cleaned me up and sent me home. But I can’t picture any of that; where he took me, what he said, how he seemed. All I know is it got sorted and no one ever spoke of it. Not even Dad. I did it for him, and he didn’t even ask how it had gone.
I waited anxiously for the knock at the door, for the police to come and take me away; a recurring nightmare even now. When they did come, a few days later, it was Dad and John who left in handcuffs. I suppose in time I was able to rationalise what had happened, to distance myself from it. That, and the tidal wave of their subsequent convictions, swept me away from that life.
As I arrive home and pull into the driveway, I think about John’s last words before returning to his cell block. Is it conceivable, by some hideous twist of fate, that it was Riggs’ brother I fought with and killed that night? The possibility hovers like a scavenging bird looking for a place to perch. The longer it circles there, the less of a coincidence it seems, until finally it finds a place to settle in my head. Another thought joins it as I’m forced to consider the idea that for the last twenty years, while I’ve been anxiously waiting for the law to catch up with me, Herb Long has been protecting me from his greatest enemy.
Grace gets back from work late again. This time she’s just been busy. The woman who cancelled on Saturday was desperate and offered to pay extr
a to be spray-tanned after hours. I’ve made dinner and we’re sitting at the table. I didn’t tell her I was going to see John; I plan to tell her about it tonight.
‘I can’t believe your wife left you,’ she says after tasting the lasagne verdi I’ve spent the last hour preparing. ‘You’re such a great cook.’
‘Technically, I kicked her out, remember?’ I say, ignoring the compliment.
‘Yes, but for good reason. You know what I mean.’ She’s trying to be sympathetic, and I’m not really in the mood.
‘To be honest I rarely did much in the kitchen the last few years.’ The undercurrent of self-loathing that’s been niggling away all afternoon starts to rise, and I’m failing to suppress it.
‘Mickey, you’re a lovely guy. She didn’t deserve you. She must have been mad to start mucking around behind your back.’ It’s a subject that’s been largely taboo between us and I realise she’s only being supportive. The problem is she’s caught me on the wrong day.
‘Look, if you must know I was a lousy husband.’ I slam down my fork, spattering the tablecloth with sauce. ‘I didn’t do anything for her, I didn’t take her out, I never bought her flowers, I drank too much and I let her down once too often.’
‘Mickey!’ she says offering me a comforting arm. ‘What’s brought this on?’
I regain some composure, pick up the fork and start moving the pasta around on my plate. I’m not sure how to continue.
‘I saw a ghost today.’ I say, finally looking up at her. She waits for me to continue. ‘A young lad who died twenty years ago.’
She looks back, even more confused, wanting to understand. In the end I can’t bring myself to tell her what I was going to say.
‘I went to see John in prison,’ I say, opting instead to describe the metaphorical spectre of his wasted youth. She falls for it and suddenly shifts her sympathy towards him. Somehow that makes me feel better and I continue eating.
Mickey Take: When a debt goes bad... Page 28
