Criminal Revenge

by Conrad Jones

  “The money and drugs are hidden in the bike frames,” he gasped, thinking that giving up the information would buy him some time. “Pull the seats off, it’s all in there. Take it and fuck off!”

  One of the men stopped pulling his injured leg and headed off in the direction of the discarded mountain bikes. Salim almost breathed a sigh of relief until the other man began to drag him alone. He tried desperately to struggle, but his energy was fading as his life force bled away. The stabbing pain in his thigh was excruciating, and white-hot bolts of fresh agony pierced his brain with every movement.

  “Did you have to shoot him there?” A voice came from the darkness. Salim was slipping in and out of consciousness. “There will be blood everywhere.”

  “Shut up, Einstein!” the man dragging Salim replied abruptly. “That’s why we brought the plastic, isn’t it?”

  “We brought the plastic because I told you to. There will be blood all over the alleyway.”

  “Bollocks, open the doors.”

  Salim heard vehicle doors being opened, and then the crinkling, crackling sound of a polythene sheet being dragged across the delivery bay. Another shaft of pain shot through him as he was dragged onto the plastic by the legs. He tried to scream, but a choked gargle was all he could manage. Time was running out, and there was nothing he could do about it.

  “Where is he?” Einstein asked angrily.

  “He’s getting the drugs and the money,” came the snarled reply.

  “What for? We’ve got what we came for,” Einstein moaned. “Can’t you two ever follow a fucking plan?”

  A hooded figure emerged from the alleyway. He had the bike in one hand and he dragged the body of the dead runner in the other. He dropped them on the loading bay and then returned for the other.

  “What are you doing?” Richard Bernstein hissed, looking at the dead boys. He was shaking his head in disbelief.

  “Change of plan, Einstein,” the man replied calmly. “We’re going to leave these little bastards here with the drugs and a message for the police. I want everyone to think that this was a drugs hit. The scumbags will take this personally.”

  He rummaged through Rozzo’s pockets and recovered a small notebook and a biro. He ripped a blank page from amongst the illegible scrawling, and penned a note, sticking it to the dead boy’s forehead with a piece of discarded chewing gum. “That should put the pressure on Malik Shah and his friends for a while; anything that we can do to spotlight his activities is a good thing.”

  Einstein could see the sense in it immediately. If Malik, Ashwan and their associates had the police crawling all over them, then that would make it very difficult for them to step out of line. They would have to do as they were told, or face the consequences, just as Amir Patel and his wife had done. They hadn’t followed the instructions they had been given, and they had paid the ultimate price. Malik Shah would realise that his dark empire was under attack, but he would be helpless while the police scrutinised his businesses. If this were a game of chess, then Einstein would have all his strong pieces in the right places, and this game would have only one ending, checkmate. The dead boys were a bonus for now, and he could see the benefit. The big man couldn’t, but he rarely did, he just followed orders. At first Einstein had been worried about killing, but as the years had gone by and he had watched Malik Shah and his empire grow, he had realised that anyone connected to them was evil and equally guilty. There would be collateral deaths too, but that was to be expected.

  Salim could hear the conversation around him, but it didn’t make much sense to him. In his mind he didn’t believe that this was a drug hit by a rival gang. The shooter was a marksman, no doubt about that. He did believe that his number was up. He would become a statistic. Abdul Salim was to become one of the legions of dead teenage victims of the ever growing number of drug gangs.

  “Put the memory stick into his pocket,” the man called Einstein said. His voice seemed distant now. Salim felt rough hands placing something into his top zip pocket. His vision cleared for a moment, and the face of his murderer appeared. The man was ugly, to say the least. His features were broad and exaggerated, his forehead protruded. A sneer crossed his attacker’s face.

  “Give this to Ashwan from me, and be sure to tell him that Mamood will die slowly, unless he follows these instructions to the letter.”

  “Wrap him up. He isn’t going to live long enough to tell anybody anything, thanks to you. We’ll dump him outside Ash’s house, as planned,” Einstein moaned.

  Salim heard the words echoing in his mind as he felt himself being cocooned in plastic. His vision distorted as the layers built up. He was turned over and over, breathing became difficult, and then impossible. Salim died as many of his young customers had, helpless and alone in the darkness.

  Ronald Theakston held his breath and tried to stay as still as he possibly could. He shuffled backwards against the fire door and made himself as small as he could, praying that the men in the van wouldn’t turn around and see him. The doorway had been his home for the last three months, reasonably dry and far away from the eyes of passersby. Ronald had been on the streets for almost as long as his alcohol-addled brain could remember, but it hadn’t always been that way. He was a veteran of the first Gulf War, a Royal Marine. Civilian life didn’t suit him and he had drifted from one dead-end job to another before finally falling off the wagon completely and drinking himself into oblivion whenever he could afford it. He was registered to a homeless shelter, but he rarely went there. The Social Security gave him the minimum allowance, and he received a nominal pension from the Marines which enabled him to stay drunk seven days a week, as long as he didn’t eat, of course. He was drunk, tired and very scared. It had been a long time since he had fired a gun, but he could recognise the deadly spitting sound of a silenced nine-millimetre pistol. There were three men by the looks of things, and two dead, at least. He’d heard the name Einstein, and something about a message for Ashwan. Ronald closed his eyes and allowed sleep to take him.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Sarah Bernstein – School Days

  Sabah Barakat was in his last year of high school, and he couldn’t wait to leave. His family, who were originally from the United Arab Emirates, had high hopes for their eldest son, but their aspirations were not the same as Sabah’s. They had dreams of him reading law, becoming a solicitor or even a barrister. His mother talked incessantly about him becoming an eminent surgeon, despite the fact that he had dropped biology as a science subject. He hated science. In fact, he hated studying completely. Sabah had dreams of his own, and he had already taken his first tentative steps into a life of crime. His friend Malik Shah was buying cannabis and LSD from some of his older cousins and then making a huge profit selling them to the other students at school. If anyone needed drugs for the weekend, Malik and his sidekicks were the suppliers of choice. Sabah was making good money already, and he hadn’t finished his final exams yet. He could buy new trainers every week if he chose to, and his collection of gold bling was growing month on month. Being part of the supply chain had its benefits in other ways too, primarily of the female kind. The young girls on the periphery of the gang were drawn to the male members like moths to a flame. Sarah Bernstein was one of those unfortunate girls.

  Academically Sabah was gifted, but he had no interest in his studies. The only school activity that he enjoyed was the annual chess competition. He saw it as a mental boxing match, a chance to demonstrate his superior intellect. His father was a magician at the game, and he had introduced his son to it at a very early age. Sabah was by far the best player in the school, and the summer saw him smash his way through the opposition to reach the semi-finals of the competition without losing a single leg. The final was in his sights, and regaining his title as school champion looked like a foregone conclusion. Sabah sniggered when he saw who his next opponent was to be. Richard Bernstein stood in his way, the fat Jew-Boy that they’d beaten to a pulp in the park a year before. He was also
Sarah Bernstein’s brother, and Sabah knew her well, most of the gang did. Sabah couldn’t wait to play him. He was going to enjoy every minute of it, or so he thought.

  Richard Bernstein and Sabah Barakat were twenty minutes into the first game of their semi-final, and things weren’t faring well for Sabah. Richard Bernstein had always done well in the open competition, but he was a year younger than Sabah, and being beaten by a younger pupil was embarrassing. There were teachers drifting around, watching and refereeing, and a small crowd of onlookers, seated at one end of the sports hall, sat and watched in silence. The hall was used for a multitude of events by the school, and it smelled of polish and bee’s wax. It had a stage at one end, used to show the schools theatrical productions. When not in use it had the headmaster’s podium on it, from where daily assemblies were directed. Sabah had used his strongest opening moves, but Richard Bernstein had a counter measure for everything that he tried. Sabah was in danger of losing a game, so he decided to apply a different tactic when the teacher’s backs were turned.

  “How are the scars, Bernstein?” Sabah tilted his head to one side to gauge the impact of his words on the younger boy.

  Richard’s eyes flickered upward for a second as the verbal assault landed, but he was toughened by years of abuse and bullying by others, and he retreated into the safety of his mind. He moved a knight, trapping Sabah’s bishop and rook in a fork. The move meant that Sabah had to sacrifice one to save the other. Richard ignored Sabah and stared hard at the board. Sabah shifted uncomfortably in his seat, disturbed by the lack of response from Richard, and by the position he found himself in on the board.

  “You never grassed us up, did you?” Sabah sneered. He moved the rook begrudgingly, knowing that Richard was about to take his bishop. “Fucking good job, or you would have been really sorry,” he whispered, leaning forward across the table. He slapped the palm of his hand on the desk as he spoke, and a slapping sound echoed across the sports hall.

  Richard captured Sabah’s bishop with his knight. His facial expression never altered. A teacher walked by them, alerted by the sudden slapping sound. He stopped to study the board. Both boys planned their next moves in silence. Sabah made his move. The teacher tutted and shook his head as he walked away, indicating that it had been a poor move. Sabah frowned and tried in vain to see his mistake, but he could not. He could feel anger rising in his belly.

  “Check,” Richard said, moving his queen into an attacking position. Sabah had left his king exposed. Sabah twisted in his seat, biting his lower lip in frustration. He glared at Richard, but his opponent never took his eyes from the board. Sabah had such a mastery of the game that being outplayed was totally alien to him. His thought process was thrown out of kilter.

  “Sarah is your little sister, right?” Sabah moved his king out of check. He stared at Richard, but Richard wouldn’t make eye contact. “She’s a real party girl.”

  Richard Bernstein concentrated on the board. He had Sabah on the ropes, and it felt good. For once in his life, he felt that he was his attackers’ equal. Sabah had been there the day he had been attacked and slashed. There was no remorse, no apologies, no forgetting the incident. The bastard was still attacking him now, over a game of chess, and Richard was not going to be bullied out of the game. Not by one of his attackers. The chessboard was his domain, and he wouldn’t be intimidated there.

  “She’s Malik’s bitch mostly, but he shares her around when she’s stoned.” Sabah had a twisted smile on his face as he spoke. He kept prodding, probing, looking for a chink in Richard’s mental armour, but none was forthcoming.

  “Check.” Richard didn’t flinch as he attacked Sabah’s pieces again. The words had sunk in, but truth be told he wasn’t surprised. His parents suspected that his younger sister was ‘partying’ with Malik and his crowd, but he doubted that they thought she was sexually active, and being ‘shared’, as Sabah had so eloquently described it. Sarah had changed dramatically as she had reached adolescence. She had turned from a pretty young girl into a sexy young woman in the space of a few months. Richard had noticed the changes more than his family because of his time in hospital. They couldn’t see what was under their noses.

  “I had a dabble myself, and I can tell you she’s talented orally. You understand what I mean, don’t you? Or are you still a virgin fat boy?” Sabah whispered the last sentence. He moved a pawn to block the attack, but Richard Bernstein was playing in a class above Sabah. His game had improved dramatically in the months he had been in hospital. “Most of the guys agree that she could suck the skin off a banana.”

  “Check-mate.” Richard swooped in and trapped Sabah’s king. Game over. Sabah’s face was a picture of confusion; he hadn’t seen the move coming. It was one thing knowing that you were being beaten, but another when the killer blow came out of the blue.

  “Take the move back now, Bernstein,” Sabah hissed through clenched teeth. He leaned over the board aggressively, trying to intimidate his younger opponent. “Take the piece back or you’re dead when we get outside!”

  Richard sat back in his chair and raised his hand in the air to attract the attention of a teacher. He reached into his pocket with the other hand and took out a Wagon Wheel biscuit. He bit the wrapper from it with his teeth while he waited for the teacher to arrive.

  “I’m warning you, Bernstein! Keep your mouth shut!” Sabah couldn’t believe that Bernstein was being so blasé about his threats. He was going to teach him a lesson, one he would never forget. He was so angry that he couldn’t get his words out properly.

  Richard looked through his tormentor as if he wasn’t there, and kept his hand up. He took two bites from the Chocolate Wagon Wheel, munching on them while he studied the board.

  “I’m going to fuck you up, Bernstein, just you wait, fat boy!”

  “Yes, Bernstein?” A teacher approached. He was wearing a tweed jacket with stitched-on elbow pads and clenching an unlit pipe between his teeth. The pipe was never ignited until he was in the staffroom, but it was always there in the art teacher’s mouth.

  “Checkmate, sir,” Richard said, pointing to the board. Sabah’s face darkened with anger.

  “Yes, indeed it is. Well done, Bernstein, one game to you.” The teacher began to reposition the pieces, ready to begin the next game. “Is everything alright, Sabah?” he added, noting the anger on his face.

  “Sabah has just threatened me, sir,” Richard said.

  “What?”

  “He threatened me, sir, and tried to make me withdraw the final move. He said he would kill me, sir.” Richard looked hard into Sabah’s dark eyes and took another bite from his snack. He chewed the chocolate snack noisily, allowing the mashed up contents of his mouth to be viewed.

  “Is this true, Barakat?” the teacher asked, removing the pipe from his lips, and raising his eyebrows in surprise.

  “You’re dead, Bernstein.” Sabah leaned back and pointed two fingers at him, making an imaginary gun. “Your sister’s a slut, and you’re a fat Jew-Boy.” He reached out and slapped Richard’s biscuit out of his hand. For the first time Richard looked offended. He stood up and retrieved the Wagon Wheel from the floor, taking another bite from it. He screwed up his face and opened his mouth wide, taunting Sabah while his back was turned to the teacher.

  “Barakat!” The teacher was astounded by the venom in his pupil’s words. “You are disqualified from the tournament, and you’re suspended! You will report to the headmaster’s office tomorrow morning!”

  “Shove it!” Sabah stood up, knocking his chair backwards as he did so. He swiped the pieces from the board and scattered them across the wooden floor. Then he squared up to the shocked teacher. “Are you going to make me?”

  “He’s also one of the boys that attacked me in the park, sir,” Richard said nonchalantly. The other teachers had gathered around, as had most of the spectators. The crowd fell silent at Richard’s revelation. Sabah turned towards him open-mouthed. They had all been convinced that they’d got
away with Richard’s assault. It had been nearly a year since the police had visited the school, looking for suspects. “My memory of it has come back. Sabah was one of the boys, and there were six others with him, including Malik Shah and his cousins. Ashwan Pindar had the knife.”

  “I’m calling the police,” the art teacher said. He grabbed Sabah by the scruff of the neck, but he struggled wildly, breaking his grip. Sabah bolted from the room, kicking chairs over, and slamming the doors as he left.

  “You’re fucking dead, Bernstein!” Sabah’s voice echoed down the corridor as his footsteps faded.

  The remainder of the day went by in a whirl. The two detectives from the hospital quizzed him for an age. His father was there as the responsible adult, and he remained silent throughout. Richard thought that he had seen a tear in his father’s eye, although it was gone as soon as it had appeared. The headmaster then had his turn, gathering the names of the attackers and convincing himself that the accusations had substance. Suspending Asian pupils would be a potential PR disaster if he got it wrong. Four hours later the inquisition had died down, and Richard’s shell-shocked parents drove him home in silence.

  The atmosphere at home was icy. His mother cried for hours, his father was sullen and withdrawn. David freaked completely. He disliked the Asian crowd intensely because of their drug dealing and blatant, arrogant behaviour. The fact that they’d assaulted his younger brother made his blood boil. He telephoned his big friend, Nick, and had a whispered conversation with him for twenty minutes. Sarah sat in her father’s armchair with her knees tucked up under her chin, her arms wrapped around her shins. She cried nonstop, sobbing like a child into her mohair jumper. It was a while before her demeanour was deemed to be unusual, a slight overreaction to the news.

  “What’s the matter with you, Sarah?” David asked sarcastically. “Are you pretending to be bothered about your brother now?”