Martin’s thinking a little more clearly now. The pain has taken a step back, letting his mind take a step forward. Thinking about Joanne. She’ll be at home, waiting for him, worried that he’s not going to return this time. She knew he was going out on a job and she understood that it was riskier than normal. They had agreed that he would tell her when he had something big on. Let her know that he was going out but without giving her any sort of detail. He told her there was a job, that it was dangerous, little more than that. He told her he would be late. She nodded along, didn’t say anything. Didn’t ask for any more detail, which he was relieved about; but he should have been home by now. She would be worried. That’s what’s causing him the most concern. The thought of her at home, on her own, worried that she might never see him again.
Nothing he can do now but wait. His mind is drifting, taking him back to other dark times. Taking him all the way back to a time when it was someone else tied up in a warehouse. Remembering the things he did to that person. Wasn’t just him, there were other people there as well. People he hardly knew and didn’t care a damn about. Can’t even remember their names now, if he was ever told them. They were paying him, that’s why he was there. He was the hired help, willing to do whatever he was paid for.
The victim, what was that poor bastard even there for? It was six or seven years ago, they were in some old warehouse in Brno. It was . . . no, he can’t remember. Come on; don’t let your mind leave you. You need to be sharp for this, you need to be alert. If you forget stuff, get sleepy, there’s no way of getting out of this, no way at all. Think, that guy, the sad soul in the warehouse.
He was middle-aged. Soft as well, definitely not a fighter. Didn’t seem like the sort of guy who would have survived as long as he had in the business. He was crying a lot because he knew what was going to happen to him. Martin was there to knock him around while the employers watched. They didn’t want anything from him, information or apologies; they just wanted to see him suffer. He had upset them and he had no way of redeeming himself, so he got punished.
It took ages, that’s what Martin remembers now. No tools, just knocking the guy around, trying not to break his own fingers as he did so. Just to make the guy suffer and make the people who paid him feel tough. It was pathetic, on reflection, but a lot of the jobs he did back then were. Knock some guy around, chase down someone who doesn’t realize he needs to run from you, go send a bloodstained message, this person needs to die. Never a good explanation for why, just money and a target. Every person was a walking price-tag and when someone wanted rid of them enough to meet the price, they became a walking target.
That man in the warehouse. Martin spent a couple of hours on him. He was unconscious for the last ten minutes or so, which was probably a good thing. He had been unconscious before during the beating, but Martin had stepped back and given him time to come round. This time he wasn’t coming round, he was either dead or dying. That was when they got out a can of petrol and poured it over him. One of them lit a match, threw it down. There was a whoosh as his clothes went up. Martin stood back, waiting for the man to scream or roll around, but he didn’t. Hopefully he was already dead, or close enough not to suffer from the burning. That was tacky, unnecessary, a gangster wanting to do something dramatic, like killing him wasn’t enough. They left him there, a charred corpse stuck to the floor. Pasted down by his own melted flesh. Maybe someone else came and washed him away, because Martin never heard the police mention the body.
Matej Dobek. That was the name of the man who hired him for that job, the man with the match. Can’t remember the victim’s name, pretty sure he was never told it. Often wasn’t, on that sort of job. Matej Dobek. He was scum, a real bad one, taking pleasure in the power he could buy. But Martin can remember him, what he looked like. Shoulder-length black hair and dark eyes. Smiled a lot. Happy with the horrors he created. He can remember the conversation he had with Joanne in the kitchen before he left the house. Remember what she was wearing. He told her he would be back in the early hours of the morning. Maybe it’s still the early hours; maybe she isn’t worried at all.
He’s thinking about Joanne because he wants to think about her. Thinking about her is nice, pleasant, makes him feel better. It’s a distraction; it’s a lack of focus. It won’t be long now, they can’t be far away. He has to clear thoughts of Joanne and thoughts of the past out of his mind. He has to think about himself, his situation. Think about Usman. Think about the next hour. His life until now doesn’t matter; whatever remains of the rest of his life doesn’t matter. It’s the next hour. In that hour, everything will be decided.
1.29 a.m.
He went home to be sick first, which wasn’t part of the plan. Threw up in the toilet, slumped onto the bathroom floor and waited for his heart rate to return somewhere close to normal. Lost all track of time. The whole thing had taken a lot longer than he’d expected, should have been finished by now. He should be drinking to forget, but he isn’t. Usman’s glancing at the clock in the car and realizing that he should have been done at least an hour ago.
They’ll be pissed off with him, but it’s their own fucking fault. They should have been there. Fuck’s sake, it was their idea so they should have been present. Their sort of job as well, not his. They should have done this bit, instead of forcing him into it. It was something he’d never done, never even considered, and they knew it. He’s an organizer, a planner. Yeah, he’s got the balls to carry out a job as well, do some of the donkey work, but it’s not his strength. That’s why he hired Martin in the first place; he needed someone with expertise to do the dirty stuff.
Shit, van drifted onto the wrong side of the road there. Too nervous, too exhausted. His arms feeling weak and boneless, his head swimming. There was so much adrenalin at the time, enough to carry him through the first part. Taking the crowbar and smashing it into the back of Martin’s head. Afraid of not hitting him hard enough so hitting him too hard instead, lacking the practice required to know how to judge it. Did it though. Did it because he had to, because they’d given him no choice. Did it because he wanted to, too. This was his chance, his one chance to get away from the danger of everything he’d done before. Get a bright new start.
He couldn’t find the place. It was a pub in the city centre they’d given him the address of, but he’d never been there before. They told him to come along a back alley and in through the back door, which would be good advice when he found the bloody place. He wasn’t supposed to be this late; they had assumed the pub would still be open by the time he got there. It won’t be now, although there might still be a few stragglers out on the street. He needs to find the place and get out of the van, get some fresh air on his face. The way he’s driving, he’s likely to get pulled over. No matter how badly this has gone so far, that would be more of a disaster than he could ever explain.
He knows he’s in the right area. Usman’s been round here before, although he’s not sure which is the right building to aim for. There, that’s it, that’s the place. A rush of relief now that he’s seen it. There are still a few people on the street, although they all look the worse for wear and wouldn’t remember him even if he drove along the pavement and over the top of them. Has to find the alleyway, park somewhere nearby. Can’t go in the front, even if there’s nobody hanging around it. People might not notice him driving past but some inconveniently sober passer-by might remember seeing him banging on the front door. Take no risks, so he’s round the corner, onto a slant. Pulling over to the side of the road and stopping. The van’s rolling back, a moment of baffled panic. Shit, handbrake. He just can’t get his brain in gear. Getting the handbrake on and hoping nobody saw that little brain-fart of his. These little things, that’s what people remember. You won’t remember everyone you pass on the street, but you’ll remember the idiot who didn’t put his handbrake on when he parked his van on an incline.
There’s nobody else on this street that he can see. Paranoid about being watched, worried tha
t the only reason he can’t see them is because they’re hiding. He’s looking at the gate that leads into the alleyway. They told him about it, described it to him in what seemed like stupid detail at the time. Doesn’t feel so stupid now, actually makes perfect sense. They knew what he would be feeling, how much he would struggle to keep his focus and hold his nerves down. Men with their experience understood exactly how it would be when he made the drive back to pick them up.
Usman’s opening the gate and slipping inside, closing it quickly behind him, the metal scratching on the cobbles and making him shudder.
A feeling of relief. He’s off the streets, out of the public’s view. Then a new fear as he’s walking along the alleyway. Nobody can see him here. If this was ever going to be a set-up, this is where it would happen. But it won’t, it can’t. They’ve all come too far and worked too hard for this to be anything other than legit. Still frightening, that thought that everything you’ve done was for nothing, just a game other people are playing to bring you down.
Usman’s walking the alleyway in the dark, reaching the metal gate they had told him was the correct one. Something else they described to him in what had seemed like absurd detail. Not absurd any more, he’d forgotten to count the gates on his way down and it was only the description that told him which one to open.
He’s in the courtyard; a small, ugly cobbled place that even in the dark looks like it could do with a good scrub. Useless for anything other than storage, and apparently not much use for that either because the place is empty. Usman’s walking across to the back door. It should be unlocked, unless they’ve given up on him and gone home. What if they have? Oh shite, what if they have? They would be so pissed off with him; he doesn’t know what he would do. He’s got his hand on the handle of the door and he’s pushing it slowly open. It does open, thank fuck. Another relief.
The pub is silent, another unsettling reminder of how late he is. He’s in a corridor, it’s dark. They said go in, along the corridor and the stairs will be on your left. He’s walking, one hand reaching out to feel the wall next to him. There’s so little light, he’s worried about crashing into furniture and making a fool of himself. They could have left a fucking light on for him, but no, they didn’t think of that. They have no sympathy for him, that’s the thing. They think this sort of thing should be as easy for him as it is for them. Well, it isn’t. Wouldn’t be easy for them either, he’s betting, but they don’t have to do it. He’s doing it; he’s lived up to the pressure and there’s only a bit left to do.
He’s found the stairs, making his way up. They might not be here, maybe they just left the door unlocked because they didn’t have a key and they’ve fucked off home. Nah, they’d have a key. Two guys as organized as them, they wouldn’t be here without having the full run of the place. At the top of the stairs he sees the door facing him, a crack of light underneath it. So they’re definitely here. It’s only occurring to him now that this is the actual point of no return. He’d thought cracking Martin on the back of the head and tying him to that chair had been the clincher. It had felt like it, but no, this is it.
He’d gotten him into the chair with a struggle, Martin not responding. Tied his hands behind him, pulled the cords as tight as he could to be on the safe side. Martin mumbled something, sounded pained. Maybe Usman had tied them too tight, but that was too bad. He wasn’t going to loosen them once they were on, wasn’t going to give Martin any chance to get out. Hurried to tie his feet together and bind them to the metal hoop in the floor that he hadn’t initially remembered to check for. Thank fuck it was close to where Martin had fallen or he would have had to drag him halfway across the warehouse floor to get to it.
And that was it. Martin was tied up and in place, ready for the finale. As he started to come round and move his head, Usman stepped back away from him. He was looking around, not saying anything, still looking groggy. Usman stepped further back, towards the door they’d come in through. He wanted to say something, tell Martin that it wasn’t personal, something like that. Words, when stacked against betrayal, felt inadequate, so he said nothing. He turned and walked to the door. As he was pulling it shut behind him, he was sure he heard Martin say something, some loud mumble that echoed just a little. Didn’t catch what it was, didn’t go back to check.
But he could have gone back, he’s realizing that now. They were behind time already, even before he decided to go home to be sick. Further behind time after that, and after him struggling to find the pub. But he could still have backed out. Could have gone back to the warehouse, cut the plastic strips and told Martin he was sorry. Told him that their partnership was obviously over, but that nothing worse would happen. Explain it to him. Having a basic conversation with Martin could sometimes be so misery-inducing as to push you beyond the limits of your tolerance, but he was smart. He could be made to understand. Once Usman opened the door in front of him, it would be too late.
The door’s opened by itself. The handle jerked back out of his hand and Gully is standing there looking at him. They’re about the same height; Gully wider, older and visibly more relaxed. He’s nodding, holding the door open for Usman to come in. Nate’s sitting at a small circular table in the middle of a narrow room, the table and a couple of chairs the only things in it. Three beer bottles and a pack of playing cards on the table. They’ve been bored, waiting for him, watching the clock and wondering what the hell’s taking so much time. Usman’s stepping inside and Gully’s closing the door behind him.
They heard him come in through the back gate, it scratched loud enough on the ground to announce his arrival. Heard him, or maybe saw him if they were watching from a window across the hall. So that was the point of no return. Feels a little better, finding out that it passed without him realizing, that it was never actually in his hands.
Gully’s standing behind him at the door, not making a move to sit back down. Nate’s looking at him, looking annoyed, but that expression isn’t much of a departure from his default.
‘Problems?’ he’s saying in his usual growl. That man just can’t seem friendly.
‘No,’ Usman’s saying, ‘no problems. Just, uh, just took longer than I thought it would. We were slow going in, that’s all. Cautious, you know.’
‘And it went okay?’
‘Went as planned, yeah,’ Usman’s saying, nodding. Doesn’t want to think about that plan. Stupid plan that he couldn’t understand to begin with. They should have been there. ‘He’s there. On the chair.’
Nate’s smiling just briefly at the rhyme. Looking past Usman at Gully. Gully’s nodding, time to go and get this finished. It should have been done by now, instead of the two of them sitting there playing cards badly, throwing their careful plan out of timing. Moving a body is always a delicate business, dangerous, you need to get it just right. Timing is everything, making sure you’re on the road when nobody else is, making sure you get back home and out of view before anyone has the chance to notice you’re not where you ought to be. This was in danger of keeping them on the road late enough for other people to turn up. Get moving, fast.
Nate’s getting up from the table, walking across to Usman. ‘Right. Let’s go, get this done. Sooner the better.’
Usman’s nodding, trying to look like he agrees. ‘Sooner the better.’
10
‘Come on, man, you can’t tell me it didn’t work out. And you can’t tell me that you wouldn’t like another good score.’
Usman was grinning, nodding his head in vigorous agreement with himself. Seemed to think that if he nodded enough, Martin would eventually feel compelled to join in. They were sitting opposite each other in the same flat in Mosspark that Usman had used for persuading and planning last time. Martin hadn’t been there since the night of the job at the bookies when they’d counted the money and gone their separate ways. They’d spoken only once in the two months since then, and that was over the phone.
It made sense for them to keep their distance, although it m
ade more sense to Martin than to Usman. It was Usman who’d gone in without a balaclava and it was his car they’d fled the scene in. If either of them was going to be caught then it was going to be him. Better not to be in close contact. Better not to let anyone know they’d had previous contact.
‘So you haven’t had any trouble?’ Martin asked him.
Usman behaved like a man without a single damn problem to his name. The one phone call they’d had was casual, an attempt by Usman to make sure that they didn’t drift apart when they could still be useful to each other. Now this, a call asking Martin to come round to the flat, telling him that he had a proposal he wanted to put to him. Trying to make it sound an everyday sort of conversation.
‘Trouble? Me? Not a bit, nah. I told you before; it went as near to perfect as it needed to. I know it wasn’t actually perfect, don’t give me that grim-reaper look, I know. Hey, I was there, you might remember. But it went well, you got to say. Two fucking months ago, Martin, two fucking months and not a word about it. No trouble, nobody chasing us down the street with an axe in their hand, money still safely tucked away. Might not be perfect, but it’s good enough, ain’t it?’
For Those Who Know the Ending Page 10
