by Limey Lady
Pat missed that hit even more. This one-on-one get-together didn’t bode well.
‘He’s been dealing,’ Sean went on. ‘Not personally, though. Oh no, Danny was right. He’s got a gang of youngsters doing the legwork for him.’
There was no point in asking how Sean knew this. He played his informants like he played brag . . . very close to his chest.
‘I spoke to our guys,’ Pat said, ‘on the QT, obviously. Nobody has a good word to say about him, but there’s nothing concrete . . . apart from Moggs.’
‘What about Moggs?’
‘He says Kyle got him pissed. Spiked his drink or what have you. He’s worried that he might have let something slip.’
Sean frowned. ‘When was this?’
‘He said it was a few months ago.’
‘Can’t be anything in it,’ Sean said after brief consideration. ‘Moggs doesn’t know anything, does he?’
‘Don’t ask me. I don’t know all the secrets you let everyone else in on.’
‘Fuck off Paddy. Stop telling sob stories.’
‘I’m just saying.’
‘Well don’t. Tell me what Moggs thinks he let slip, instead.’
‘He doesn’t know. He reckons his memory’s a black hole.’
‘Yeah, yeah, it has been ever since Williamson grabbed him and Swanny.’ Sean had a sip of Johnnie Red. ‘Moggs hates Kyle. Of course he’s worried he might have let something slip. Kyle’s the last person he’d want to give anything away to. But he can only have given him chicken shit, can’t he, so let’s move on.’
‘If you say so,’ said Pat, shrugging.
‘I do; now, what about Jacko?’
‘Nobody knows for sure.’
‘What do you think, Paddy? Give me your considered opinion.’
‘I think it was Kyle. And stop calling me “Paddy”.’
‘I tend to agree with you, Paddy. Let’s face it; no-one else is dumb enough to pull a stunt like that.’
‘Okay, so we agree. Do we care?’
‘Do I care about Jacko?’ Sean drank more whisky. ‘I honestly don’t give a fuck. Danny Painter cares enough for everyone. Why don’t we leave it to him?’
Pat hid his relief. He’d been expecting fury and demands for heads on plates, like yesterday. But for once Sean seemed philosophical.
I could still do with a hit though . . . maybe later.
‘We can’t leave it to Danny because Kyle’s one of ours,’ he said out loud. ‘And Jacko was a wanker anyway.’
Sean considered a moment. ‘I understand Danny’s feelings,’ he resumed. ‘I still feel bad about Pongo, and that was what? Fifteen years ago?’
‘Thirteen last June.’
‘We missed the anniversary again, didn’t we?’
Pat shrugged. The Williamsons had buried Pongo under a roundabout on the new bypass. Although they only had an approximate anniversary date, he and Sean went to pay their respects at least once a year. Spooky respects, usually after midnight. He didn't enjoy those visits.
‘What about the dealing?' he said. 'Never mind pissing off Danny Painter, Kyle's breaking just about every rule you've ever set. And he's been doing business with Harry Williamson.'
‘Yeah, I didn’t bother making a rule about that.' Sean laughed. 'I never thought anything as unlikely as that would happen. Williamson's as taken aback as I am, by all reports. Not that I intend to do what he did and dump Kyle in the canal.'
‘What do you intend?'
‘I've half a mind to let Angel at him. He'd like that . . . Angel, I mean. Kyle wouldn't like it at all.'
‘But . . .'
‘How do you know there's a but?'
‘I can see it in your face. And we've never topped one of our own lads.'
‘I'm not shitting out, Pat. But I must admit I'm not keen on killing him. Not even if he does deserve it.'
‘What then?'
‘I'm going to wash my hands, let Danny do it. If he dare, that is.'
‘What if he shits out?'
‘Then he's the soft twat, not me.'
Pat stared at his lifelong friend, genuinely surprised. ‘And Kyle just carries on?'
‘I'll be honest: I'm interested to see if he does carry on. If Williamson's gone and topped his supplier, he's fucked, isn't he? But somehow I reckon he'll stay in business.'
‘Who's going to supply him?'
‘Williamson.'
‘What, after grassing him up and topping his scapegoat?'
‘Bet you a ton he stays in business,’ Sean said confidently. ‘Assuming Danny shits out.'
‘No chance. You know something I don't. Has your mole been in touch?'
‘I've asked him about Kyle. He doesn't know anything.'
‘Why are you so smug then?'
‘You know me, Pat; I'm a master of human nature. If I don't react it'll drive Williamson nuts. He'll have to supply Kyle to keep the pressure on me.'
‘I'll bow to your mastery of human nature. But won't it be like having a viper in your whatsit?'
‘No. It'll be like having an ace up my sleeve. Kyle's going to be our double-agent and he won't even know it. We'll be able to feed duff information through him. The possibilities are endless.'
‘What about him feeding through real information?'
‘Don't worry about it, Pat. I know what I'm doing. From now-on he won't get anything that's worth a toss. And he'll be watched all the time; by us at this end, Moley at Williamson's.'
*****
The killer was as cool as always, even if it was early in the day for him. And considering he was dressed casually and not wearing any of the usual gear.
He permitted himself a scowl.
How dare that fucking nobody hijack my legend!
The thought was so outrageous that his scowl faded and he had to cover his mouth to block an angry laugh.
That nobody from Eldwick, the rich bit of Snootyville, for fuck’s sake!
Although the police were playing it down, it was obvious they thought they’d cracked their case. And everyone knew how they thought they’d done it. Everyone did in this bit of the Aire Valley, anyway. The papers and TV might not be shouting out names yet, but local tongue-waggers certainly were. It was not possible to go into a corner shop without hearing someone say “Trevor Lockwood”, never mind any of the pubs.
Trevor Lockwood.
The killer had toyed with the moniker a while. It wasn’t one you’d immediately put up there with the greats. Even though there was a temptation to stand off and see what happened, there was no way he could allow Trevor Lockwood any more moments of fame.
Not when the real McCoy had got a moniker already: Leatherjacket . . . fucking Leatherjacket.
Although he didn’t do worried, the killer found that was a little close to the bone. Worse still, it had a ring to it. The only moniker he’d heard before this week had been the very dull and boring Shipley Serial Killer. “Leatherjacket” sounded like something out of Jack the Ripper. Still, if he had been in a position to pick his own, he supposed he’d have gone for something like Leatherjacket and to hell with its disturbing accuracy.
Trevor fucking Lockwood wasn’t having it.
Not the fame.
Not the name.
He could have a small share in the legend though. Seeing as he had already gate-crashed his way in, he might as well become notorious . . . as a fall guy.
Smiling purposefully, the killer drew out his hammer and stake.
*****
There were half a dozen nurses and care workers waiting by Geoff’s bed when Louisa and Val wheeled him back. Official word obviously hadn’t reached them yet, although they must have heard all the loud congratulations he’d got as he passed the nurses’ station. Faces were taut but hopeful.
‘Here he comes,’ Louisa said in greeting. ‘Still gainfully employed and a step nearer to earning his corn.’
The crowd of women erupted, clapping and cheering as if they were on an old newsreel and had just seen a goal in a cup fina
l. The only things missing were caps in the air.
‘So you can put all the enemas back in the stores,’ said Geoff, feeling a lump rising in his throat.
‘He’s their best contract expert,’ Val added proudly, ‘far too good to let go.’
That was too much for him. He burst into tears and had to put up with all eight of them kindly fussing over him for the next fifteen minutes, by which time he’d been safely hoisted back into position on the air mattress, propped in place by hospital pillows filled with the usual lumpy concrete.
He loved all his nurses and care workers but wished they’d leave him alone once in a while. Like even Penny left him alone for most of each day.
And like Samantha seemed to be leaving him alone altogether, as though “anon” was her term for a thousand-year sentence.
‘Try to sleep,’ Louisa advised once she’d shooed the others away. ‘It’s been a busy day for you. No wonder you’re all in.’
An hour sitting in a wheelchair, he thought after she’d gone. And that’s a busy day! God help me, I’m a wreck.
He closed his eyes, forcing more tears to trickle off his face. At least he could feel them go. His face had been affected, but not as badly as most everywhere else.
Please God, make me slightly better. Give me a sign that this isn’t it forever. And not just by sending me Henry, with his soft heart and consideration. Send me . . .
I don’t know. Send me the power to wiggle my toes. I keep trying but . . .
He lay a while in silence, wishing he shared Penny’s faith, and feeling guilty too. Although he wasn’t particularly religious he’d always respected other people’s views, trying not to blaspheme too much, trying to lead a decent life. Teasing him, Penny had claimed he was hedging his bets: not believing but playing along, just in case.
She was right about most things, but not when she said that. Geoff had previous with God; previous that nobody else was ever going to know about . . . especially not Penny.
It hadn’t been so long after Samantha’s would-have-been fortieth. He’d seen a small article in the Mail on Sunday; one about a double-murderer who’d been released after serving less than ten years in prison. A guy from Bradford whose stray bullets had killed an innocent mother of three . . .
An innocent mother of three named Samantha Rodgers . . .
Sitting there at the kitchen table, Geoff had lowered his head and prayed for justice. Not nine or ten years of Human Rights justice, but true justice.
If ever he should have been careful what he wished for!
Within a few days he’d heard that Johnny Green had been butchered in Lumb Lane. Apparently he’d been trying to reclaim his old turf and had underestimated the savagery of the new breed of dealers.
For a while Geoff had blamed himself for the killing, for setting a cruel and vengeful God on the slimy murderous . . .
Well, the self-recrimination had been short-lived. He’d found it difficult to blame himself, God or a pack of teenage street dealers for wanting rid of Johnny Green. But it had been even more difficult to feel relief or pleasure. At the time all he’d felt was fear. As if he’d started something rolling that might never stop.
Burn that monkey’s paw!
Over recent months, during the endless hours he had had to think in depth, he’d thought a lot about Samantha’s killer. Was it a chain of nightmare coincidences, or was there some terrible logic in it?
Was CIDP the price for wishing evil on Johnny Green?
Was being hacked to bits the justifiable consequence of spraying bullets over a city centre street?
It was impossible to say, although surely there couldn’t be a pattern, because Samantha hadn’t done anything to deserve getting mown down in the first place.
Had she?
Still keeping his eyes clenched shut, he attempted to move his feet. It was futile. He had lost all sense of feel so hadn’t a clue if his efforts were succeeding or not. And he daren’t sneak a peep because he did not want to witness yet another failure.
I really do need some encouragement here, God. I can’t tell you how hard it is keeping up the brave, cheerful front, pretending to notice tiny improvements that aren’t really there; to tell the truth . . .
He heard the stutter inside his brain.
T . . . to tell the t . . . t . . . truth . . .
For fuck’s sake don’t say it’s taking my mind as well as my body!
If that happens I’ll end it all.
That last thought was as futile as his toe-wiggling attempts. He simply did not have the ability to end it all. Even if he could get into his medicine locker he wouldn’t be able to open the dozens of bottles or pop any of the millions of pills out of their tiny plastic bubbles. Never mind swallow the colourful little buggers.
And how else could I do it? Throw myself under a train?
Ha, ha, ha!
It was no use. He had to open his eyes. His life was in ruins, he’d shoved Penny away because of his ever-increasing infirmity . . .
And he had to open his eyes.
Wincing inwardly, dreading it, he finally plucked up courage and opened the shutters.
Looking down the bed he could see nothing: no displaced pillows; nothing.
Not even ruffled bed sheets.
His legs hadn’t moved one millimetre, never mind his feet or (belly laugh, please) toes.
Why did you let her send me back, God, his (possibly? probably?) ailing brain screamed. What sort of earthly good did that do?
What unspeakable crime could I have committed to deserve this? Was it something in a previous life? Was I called Genghis or Joseph? Maybe even Adolph?
No answer.
Not one peep
So to hell with it; Geoff spent a useless ten minutes trying to commit suicide by not breathing.
He failed at that, too . . . as you would.
Then he gave in and slept, dreaming bitter dreams.
Chapter Thirty
(Thursday 25th September 2008)
‘Fancy seeing you here,' Heather smiled up from her unofficial Shama workstation. 'Where's Blondie?'
‘Overnighting in Bristol,' said Pat. 'Where's Sean?'
‘How should I know?'
‘I thought you were . . .'
‘I'm shagging him, McGuire; recreationally and only every now and then. That's as far as it goes.'
Pat took in the by now familiar havoc on Heather's table. He'd feared she might have already been and gone but, although it was late, it looked like she'd only just got there. Her starters hadn't arrived and only one of her three pints had been touched.
‘Sean said he was off out to enjoy himself. I just assumed . . .'
‘Not with me he's not. Not tonight, anyway. He must be shagging one of his other tarts. Are you here on your own?'
‘Yeah; I've had a busy day. This is my first chance to eat.'
‘Better sit down then, before you faint.'
‘Okay,' Pat looked around for a table, 'see you later.'
‘Whoa, McGuire, where are you going? Don’t you recognize an invitation when you see one?'
Pat grinned as he took a seat opposite her. 'I never took you to be the inviting type.'
‘Oh I can be very inviting,' said Heather, closing her laptop and folding up her FT, 'as you probably guessed.'
‘Me?' he said innocently.
‘Drop the act, McGuire.' Heather was still smiling. ‘You were itching to join me.’
‘Madness not to,’ he conceded. ‘Two lonely souls, cast together . . .’
‘You, me and kismet,’ she said. ‘Tonight has obviously been pre-ordained.’
‘I take it you’ve ordered?’
'I have but don’t worry; I’ll make sure you’re fed and watered. You can have one of these lagers. And help yourself to the poppadums.'
‘How do you do it?' he wondered. 'Everybody else gets one poppadum each.'
‘I have an arrangement. You could say they're used to my fancies and desires.'
&n
bsp; ‘Are they?’ Pat laughed, ‘lucky them.'
‘Hmmm, if circumstances were different it could have been lucky you.'
