98. – Stanton
WE DROVE along the Guisborough Road until we were a couple of miles outside Whitby. Then my brother pulled into a little layby surrounded by tall hedges, where we counted the cash and separated it into three piles.
I pulled three five grand bricks off each of the three piles and placed them on Mickey’s lap. He stared down at the money, surprised. “This is more than we agreed, Stanners me lad.”
“So it is.”
Disappointment flickered across my brother’s face, but for once he didn’t bother to verbalise it.
Mickey smacked his lips together and gathered the stacks into one pile, saying: “Why?”
“‘Cause you put your neck out there. Bob Owden wasn’t part of the plan, but you helped us deal with him anyway.”
He smiled shyly. “I very nearly didn’t, you know.”
“I know,” I said. “But the important thing is that you did. You earned it.”
I dumped another five brick off my pile into Kandinsky’s lap, despite the fact that he’d already been paid. His eyebrows arched until his forehead wrinkled. Then he cocked his head towards Mickey. “What he said.”
“You were brought in to help deal with Eddie. All the shite with Piper was extra. Consider this my way of saying thanks.”
------
We took the A171 south to Scarborough and dumped the car in a street without CCTV after we had wiped it down. Then we made our way to the train station.
Mickey left first, with a bag full of guns and Piper’s hard-drive, on the first train to Manchester; quickly followed by Kandinsky, who took the next train to York.
We found a café with a good view of the station and sat at a table by the window and listened to McMaster talk about his new Russian girlfriend. He showed us photos of a young, slim, beautiful blonde who seemed to have difficulty smiling. She wore the same moody expression in every picture, but he was too enraptured to notice the boredom in her eyes. I suspected that somewhere down the line she would cause him trouble.
McMaster ordered a pot of tea from a pretty young waitress with a spray tan problem and nursed it for a while. I cradled a warm bottle of water in my hands and stared out of the window at the people as they rushed past. My brother ogled the waitress every time she bent over. She almost caught him a couple of times and eyed him warily. Finally, he tired of her and played video games on his mobile phone instead.
We remained silent for a long time, until McMaster decided that he had something interesting to say.
“What’re you gonna do with the money?”
“Why’d you ask?”
“Just interested,” he replied with a hint of a smile.
“Why?”
“You said you were heading to Thailand, right?”
“Summat like that.”
“How you gonna get the money out there?”
I thought about the safe deposit box. The plan was to put the majority of the money in the box and come back for it as and when we needed it, and change up twenty-five grand into dollars and keep travelling until the money ran out. Ever the original thinker, my brother told me he’d had the same plan.
“Take some, deposit some. Come back from time to time.”
McMaster supped his tea and put it down noisily. “You heard of the Bank of Abraham?”
“Bank of Abraham?”
“That’s right.”
“No. But it sounds shady.”
“It is, but not in the way you think.”
“And what am I thinking?”
“That I’m selling you something.”
“And you’re not?”
“Okay, it goes like this. A few years ago I had to leave these shores for a while. A job I did went shit-shaped and people wound up getting their heads thrown in the river.”
“Were their bodies attached?” my brother asked, looking up from the game briefly.
McMaster thought my brother had made a joke and smiled for a few seconds. When he realised that he wasn’t kidding, McMaster coughed and frowned. “Er, no. Just their heads.”
“A severance package they didn’t ask for?” I said.
“Correct,” McMaster said. “One of them had made pillow talk about the job with a casual shag. This became a shitload of Chinese whispers that eventually made their way back to the individual we robbed. Before you can say torture, murder and mutilation, the police start finding human heads without the accompanying body bobbing around the Thames like fuckin’ apples at a fair. So I had to get outta town. I took the moolah I had – not all of it, mind – and gave it to a banker called Joe Abraham. Then he made sure that wherever I went the funds found me.”
“How?”
“Western Union, currency cards, and so on. Occasionally, he had people who owed him favours give me the cash directly. He had his ways.”
“Sounds too good to be true.”
“Oh, there’s a catch,” he agreed, nodding. “He takes a percentage for the work.”
“Percentage?”
“When I did it he took seven and a half. Might be ten now.”
“Of how much?”
“I deposited seventy-five gees,” McMaster said. “So, he took just over five-and-a half grand.”
“And he didn’t try and rip you off?”
“This guy has loads of people on his books at any one time. He rakes in the cash. He doesn’t need to rip his clients off. And don’t forget that most of his clientele are dangerous fuckin’ people. Ripping them off would not be good for his health. He was an actual banker, back in the day, so knows all the angles, and has dummy accounts and shells everywhere.”
“Yeah, but what if he did do a runner?”
“Fair enough. And what if you lose your twenty-five grand, somehow?”
“Point taken.”
“Just something to think about,” he said and finished his cup. He took his mobile phone out of a jacket pocket and scowled at it. “Looks like I’m the next to go.”
He picked up his holdall by the short handles and bounced it in his hand. “I like the way this feels,” he said, grinning.
I lifted the second holdall that also contained my brother’s stash. “Yeah, but mine feels better.”
“See you around,” McMaster said, wrapping the long handle over his shoulder. “And think about the Bank of Abraham.”
He left the café and made his way to the station, holding the bag as if his life depended on it, watching those he scurried past carefully, then disappeared through the front entrance.
A beautiful woman in a loose beige dress moved past the window with such effortless grace it seemed like she was floating. Long dark hair flowed behind her and the dress billowed in the breeze. And in that brief moment she looked just like Rose. The resemblance was strong enough to get me out of my seat, moving towards the exit. Then I remembered that Rose was probably in several pieces now, food for the worms, or the pigs, or the… whatever.
Another thought made my stomach spasm, sending watery bile into my mouth. I pictured her daughter at school, getting bullied by other kids, and tried to convince myself that she would be okay.
But it was futile, because things would never be okay for Emily McGarvey.
The Glasgow Grin she wore wasn’t a fashion disaster that could be discarded. It would be with her for life. Every time she looked in the mirror she’d see it. Every time she ran a hand across her skin she’d know it was there. Time would fade it from red, to pink, to white, and would smooth down some of the roughness, but it would never truly disappear. Some things go deeper than a blade through flesh and sinew. Some things go into the soul.
My stomach twisted at the thought of her mutilation and my part in it. Guilt overwhelmed me, and for a brief moment I had to fight the urge to take the money and give it to Emily. I made fists, tightened them, and walked back to the table. By the time I was back in my seat the mood had lifted.
My brother shuffled in his seat. “What the fuck was that all about?”
“You
wouldn’t understand.”
“You saying I’m thick, like?”
I eyeballed him. “No, you’re a fuckin’ intellectual powerhouse.”
He gritted his teeth momentarily, but didn’t react. “Thought you were gonna fuck off without paying,” he said.
“I thought about it.”
“You woulda regret it if you did, like.”
“You’re right. It would’ve kept me up nights, fretting about it.”
“So who was that Abraham bloke The Master was on about?” he asked.
“Abraham Lincoln.”
A brief flicker of recognition cut deep frown lines above the bridge of his nose. “Know that name from somewheres.”
“Local gang leader up in Grove Hill,” I replied. “Leads a bunch called the Emancipation Proclamation.”
“The eman… emancy proclamation? Dunno about that, like,” he said uncertainly, leading me to believe that my brother might have actually absorbed some information. “What kinda fuckin’ name’s that? Sounds gay as fuck. Wait a sec… you’re fuckin’ winding us up, right?”
“Maybe.”
My brother didn’t like that very much. He pushed the water bottle off the table and chuckled at the resulting spillage. The racket the bottle made as it bounced across the lino got the waitress’ attention. For once, my brother ignored her, though he did study her arse as she bent down and wiped up the puddle.
“For that, you’re paying the tab,” I said.
“Fuck off.”
“Toss a coin for it.”
He shook his head. “I always lose.”
“Maybe this time you’ll get lucky.”
“And mebbe I’ll just fuckin’ lose again.”
“Coward.”
My brother kicked out, but missed me and caught my chair leg instead. “All right then, you cheeky bastard, we’ll toss for it.”
I lifted a ten pence piece from my jeans pocket and placed it on the table, heads up. “Wanna do the honours?” I said.
Picking up the coin, he said: “Don’t mind if I do.”
“Heads or tails?”
“That’s for me to know and you to find out,” he said, aiming for enigmatic but achieving idiotic.
“Er, no, it’s not.”
“No… what I mean is heads.”
“Then get flipping.”
He wrapped his fist around the coin and stared at me. “Let’s make this proper interesting, like?”
“Go on.”
“In addition to the tab here, the loser gets in the first night’s tab in Thailand.”
Previous first nights with my brother had lasted several days and ended with both of us financially and physically damaged in one way or another. If I could get out of paying that kind of bill, the toss of a coin was a risk I was willing to take.
“Do it,” I said.
My brother unfurled his hand, picked up the coin and balanced it on his right thumb. A quick flick sent the coin soaring. It hung in the air for a few moments, blurring as it spun, before it dropped into my brother’s outstretched palm. He snapped his hand shut, clenched his fist and screwed his eyes closed.
He mouthed a quick prayer and opened his hand. His jaw muscles flexed manically as he stared at his palm. Then his eyes met mine and he finally growled, “You lucky fuckin’ cunt.”
I. Stanton
A GIRL of heartbreaking beauty padded along the soft sand in front of my feet. Turning my head, I watched her sashay through the crowds of sunbathers with a liquid grace that seemed effortless. Her bronzed body lacked the jutting hipbones and razor-sharp joints that seemed to be all the rage on this stretch of Ko Phi Phi. She was all about the curves.
A strutting peacock of a man with bleached highlights and a physique that seemed to have been cut directly from the cover of Men’s Health swaggered into the girl’s path and fondled her arse when she least expected it.
That knocked the liquid from her stride. She stumbled a few steps, turned narrowed eyes on him, then flicked her head away and carried on walking, her brief moment of grace seemingly gone forever. A perfect moment ruined by a braying cunt and his equally loud and loathsome friends.
“Wish that piece of shite’d shut the fuck up,” my brother said. Even in the early afternoon sun I felt the heat of the glare he was sending their way.
Not that they noticed. The four men were too busy high-fiving each other and bellowing yeah at the tops of their voices. Then the blonde man stopped strutting around for long enough to notice a couple of young women lying a few feet away, resting on their stomachs on big beach towels. Their bodies glistened with sun lotion and perspiration. Hot in every sense of the word.
The man crouched beside one of his friends – a skinny, pale man wearing long-shorts and aviator shades – and whispered in his ear. The friend grinned, nodded and handed him a can of soft drink from a large blue cooler the men were congregating around. The blonde man shook the can violently for several seconds and stood upright. Once he was certain they weren’t going to see him coming, he took crept along the sand and stopped beside them, fingering the ring pull.
One quick yank sent drink exploding from the can, over their backs. They screamed with shock and fear, falling over as they attempted to scramble away from the man. He stopped chasing them as soon as the can was empty and walked back to where his friends hooted and clapped with appreciation.
The taller of the two girls stormed back towards the towels, whilst her friend remained where she was, face fluttering between fear and amusement. The tall girl folded the towels with violent jerks and threw them into a big canvas beach bag. She snatched it up and turned to her friend. “Come on, Mara,” she said, “Let’s go some place else.”
Mara and her friend strode away without looking back at the man and his friends. He went after them quickly. “Come on, girls. It was just a bit of fun,” he said. His voice had a softness to it that only came from an expensive private English education.
“For you maybe,” the tall girl replied.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“Yes, you sound it.”
“Come back. I promise I’ll leave you be.”
“Of course you will,” the tall girl said. “Because we’ll be someplace where you can’t bother us.” The girls walked quickly in our direction.
I heard the sound of crumpling metal. My brother crushed his can of drink and cola fizzed over his hand and into the sand, but he was too busy glowering at his new enemy to notice.
The man cut in front of the girls and spread out his arms in a Jesus pose. Mara and the tall girl stopped and looked at him with blank faces, waiting for some kind of punchline.
“I was just joshing with you,” he said.
“Fine,” the tall girl said. “You’re forgiven. Now, if you don’t mind moving out of our way, we’re in a hurry.”
“And what if I don’t move?” he said, trying to coming across flirty.
“She asked you to move. So shift your fuckin’ arse, Blondie.”
The blonde man turned in our direction. His eyes locked onto my brother, lingering over the biceps that were twice the size of his own, studying his huge pecs. His expression suggested an internal dialogue: Can I take this bloke in a fight?
The girls had already moved on without a further glance, moving down the beach at pace, but Blondie didn’t notice – he was too busy measuring up my brother to care.
“You say something, friend?”
“Loud enough that I’m not repeating it, like,” my brother replied, getting to his feet.
Blondie wasn’t short, but next to my brother he appeared puny. He was at least three inches shorter and about three stone lighter. The internal dialogue in his head probably told him: No, this bloke could rip my head off.
He held up his hands. “Sorry, fella. No harm intended.”
My brother’s gaze softened. “No worries,” he replied. “Just keep it down a bit, like. There’s gadgies on this beach that don’t wanna hear youse lot screamin
g your fuckin’ tits off.”
The man backed away slowly. “Of course,” he said. “I’ll make sure to tell the lads. Have a nice day, fella.”
“You too.”
Blondie went back to his friends. They gathered in a close huddle, their mouths moving in whispers, and cast an occasional glance in our direction. It was obvious that they weren’t going to let things slide.
My brother removed two cans of cola from a bucket filled with ice that we were using as a cooler. He opened one with a quick jerk of the ring pull and put the other in the right pocket of his shorts. “What’s going on?” he asked, not bothering to look for himself. Instead, he supped his drink and stared at the lush green outcrops, tall jutting rock formations, and calm water that shaped Loh Dalum bay.
“They’re working up the balls to deal with the nasty man who hurt their friend’s feelings,” I answered. They were performing lots of clenched fists and forehead bumps.
“How many?”
“All of ‘em.”
The men moved in our direction, with Blondie leading the pack. All four were six-feet, but only Blondie and a dark, muscular man with Maori-style tats up both arms looked like they posed any real threat. The two clowns at the rear were thin, hipster types with just enough muscles to lift their iPads. My brother could break them both apart with one huge hand.
“Want some help?” I asked.
My brother shook his head and said he didn’t want me interfering with his business. The men stopped a few metres away from where we sat. They cast long shadows that cut across our legs. My brother looked up at them, saying, “Youse’re blocking me sunlight.”
Blondie ignored him, taking a step closer. “You were out of order just now, fella.”
“Was I?”
“I wasn’t doing any harm,” Blondie said.
“Not sure those girls’d agree,” I replied.
“Nobody asked you, friend,” Maori tats said.
“I’m not your fuckin’ friend.”
That made him puff out his chest and move next to his pal. He removed his Ray Bans to show just how serious he was – it wasn’t the least bit threatening or scary, and I found it difficult to take him seriously. I tried to suppress a smile. And failed.
The Glasgow Grin (A Stanton Brothers thriller) Page 34
