The Night the Rich Men Burned

by Malcolm Mackay

  The door’s opening slowly. Looks like the description of Aird. Mop of thick black hair. Broad-shouldered but skinny round the waist. Brown bags under his eyes. Befuddled look. Doesn’t cope well with the unexpected. Not a lot of people knock on his door. Someone new turns up, and it’s likely to upset him.

  ‘You Gordon?’

  ‘Uh, yeah.’ Had to think about that one.

  ‘Good. I’ll come in then.’ Take the initiative. Never give them the chance to pull the strings of the conversation. Once they get used to the sound of their own voice, they’ll try and fill the room with it. Make sure yours gets there first and takes all the space available.

  Peterkinney’s pushed his way inside. It’s small, narrow, almost empty in here. Furniture is a luxury for people with the spare cash. Aird has something else to spend his money on. Smells like a small place, never cleaned and always occupied. Bloody freezing as well. Too bad. Aird has his life, Peterkinney has his. When this is done, Peterkinney will go home to his grandfather’s flat. He won’t give Aird and his little hovel another thought.

  ‘You know that you owe money, Gordon.’ Peterkinney standing in the gloomy corridor. Nothing on the walls but flaky white paint and damp. There’s no bulb or shade on the light above them. The only light reaching the corridor is coming from the open door to the empty living room. Peterkinney stopping in the corridor. Good a place as any. Less space for Aird to wriggle out of a punch. ‘Been a long time since you made any effort to pay.’

  ‘Ah, shit, yeah.’ Early enough in the evening for Gordon to know what he’s in trouble for. That helps. You occasionally get people who are too far gone to remember who they owe money to. You knock them around. Following morning they wake up with cuts and bruises and no memory of how they got them. And still no memory that they owe anyone cash. They’re not faking it. It comes as a shock to them to find out they owe anything at all. Almost no chance of gaining anything from those ones.

  ‘So it’s time to pay up. You owe a thousand pounds, Gordon.’

  ‘A thousand. Do I owe a thousand? Shit. Thousand pounds is a lot of money, you know. I don’t think I owe that. Do I?’

  ‘You do. And you need to pay it, before it gets any bigger. Need to pay it now.’ Putting a harsh tone into his voice. Don’t let the junkie run the conversation round in circles. Confusion can be infectious. ‘So are you going to pay?’

  Aird is making a startled noise. The idea that he would have a thousand pounds on him is pretty startling. ‘I don’t have that cash. I don’t. But I’ll get it. I mean, I can. I can get it.’

  No point hanging around here. Doesn’t seem to be anybody else in the flat. Time to give the boy a fright and leave. Peterkinney’s reached the end of the corridor, able to see into almost every room. There’s nobody there, no chance of this spinning out of his control. As long as it’s just him and Aird, it’s under control. Turning back, and quickly punching Aird in the stomach. No warning. No pulling back of the arm. Quick little rabbit punch. Catch him off guard.

  Thing is, a guy like Aird can’t take a punch. He’s young and he’s broad-shouldered, but that counts for nothing. He’s spent nearly a decade wrecking his body. He lives in terrible conditions. He is basically unhealthy. Undernourished, rotten teeth, broken fingernails. Pick a body part, and it’s not in the condition evolution intended. One punch and he’s dropped down onto his knees. That makes this more difficult. Peterkinney has to really scare him. One punch isn’t enough for that. One punch won’t even be memorable. Not when you’ve taken as many as Aird.

  Now that Aird’s down, he’s awkward to hit. Peterkinney’s shuffling to get his footing right. Leaning slightly. Swinging a second punch. Better backswing this time. Looking to hit him on the side of the jaw. Avoid the top of the head unless you want to know what broken knuckles feel like. You don’t want to know what broken knuckles feel like. Neither does Peterkinney. It’s an awkward punch. Not going to do a lot of harm. But it has shock value. Aird thought being down would protect him. It’s sending him sideways, into the wall in this narrow corridor. It’ll bruise. It’ll make talking and eating uncomfortable for a few days. Nothing broken though. Wasn’t able to hit him hard enough for that. Not in this stupid crouching position. But it’ll remind him about the money he owes, every time he feels the pain of it.

  Peterkinney’s straightening up. ‘You listen to me, Gordon. You have a week. One week from today. You pay up one week from today or there’s going to be serious trouble. You understand me?’

  ‘Uh-huh. Uh-huh.’

  Peterkinney’s stepping over Aird. Walking to the front door and out of the flat. No colder outside than in. Aird probably doesn’t even know what day it is. He won’t remember that he has seven days to pay. But he will remember that he has to pay. He might even try and do something about it. But before he has any chance to find the money, someone will come pay him a visit. Another one of Marty’s men. Always a different one from the attacker. The attacker is the angry face you must fear. The man offering work will be the friendly face, helping you out of a hole. They’ll tell him they’ve got an idea to help him. Do this little favour, and some of the problems will go away. And he’ll be so desperate to help. So pathetic.

  7

  A different kind of job. A punishment. Bavidge is letting the clock tick a little further. Get closer to midnight. He’s been seen in this area before. The neighbours gawked at him last time he was here. Couple of months ago. Long enough that most of them won’t remember. Not going to take any risks though. A person with an empty life will remember the few interesting faces that pop up. He’s borrowed a car. Patterson has a couple of them that he keeps spare. Rotate between them; use them on jobs like this. Bavidge is dressed plainly. He has a pair of thin gloves and a black cap on. Not a balaclava, that shouldn’t be necessary.

  He’s parked near the bottom of the street. Watching the street ahead. Looking for any sign of action. If Holmes is running then he might have people helping him. There might be a bunch of them at the house. Packing up, and helping him run. No sign of it. Just a few cars parked on the street. None right outside the house. A deep breath. Doesn’t matter how many times you’ve done this, a deep breath always helps. Starting the car.

  He’s parking right outside the house. The shortest escape route. Looking up and down the street. Trying to work out if it’s worth the risk or not. No, take the keys with you. If he thought he could get away with it, he would leave the keys in the ignition. Gain a few potentially precious seconds. Not this time. Shouldn’t need that extra time, but hell, you should never need it. In this area, you don’t gamble with your transport. Protect your escape route. Take the keys in with you.

  This job requires all the thought you can give it. Not a normal job. A normal job is an attack on someone with only a basic idea of how to defend themselves. Of how to attack back. Not Holmes. He knows the business. Been doing this longer than Bavidge has. Not better, but longer. Long enough to learn the lessons. Long enough to make this a handle-with-care job.

  Pulling the cap down a little and getting out of the car. Locking it. Looking at the house. There’s a light on downstairs. Front window was the living room, if he remembers right. That means the thief and his woman are in there. Still up and about. Maybe packing up their stuff, if they have any idea of what’s good for them. Amazing that they haven’t run already. Stupid of them, and stupidity carries a price. Bavidge is walking quickly up the path. Ringing the doorbell. Be interesting to see how long they take to answer. A glance at his watch. Ten to midnight. Should take enough time for questioning looks and a reluctant walk to the door. If there’s a rush to the door, then they might be expecting someone else. Someone to help them run.

  Ten seconds. Twenty seconds. Finally the sound of the door being unlocked. Then opened. Hope to God it’s not on one of those wee chains. Then you have to try and talk your way in. Bavidge can do it. Holmes knows him now. Knows they both work for Patterson. Bavidge could bluff his way in with that. And if
the bluff fails, you have to kick it in, and the job’s gone to hell before you’ve crossed the threshold. But he doesn’t have to. The door’s opening wide and Norah Faulkner is staring back at him. That same rough expression. The same dressing gown as two months ago, although Bavidge doesn’t recognize that. Hair tied back, no make-up. Ready for bed. So not running tonight.

  ‘Norah. Alan Bavidge, Jim home?’

  She’s relaxing. More than she should. More than he thinks she would if she knew Jim was skimming 20 per cent from his boss. Now that is interesting. She’s nodding, and waving a hand for him to come in. Looking out the door behind him to make sure that none of the nosy neighbours are around and watching.

  ‘Something the matter?’ she’s asking. Leading him through to the living room. ‘Is it that Marty Jones again?’

  ‘No, Norah, it isn’t,’ Bavidge is saying.

  Holmes is in the living room. He was sitting in his chair watching TV, but he’s getting to his feet. The look on his face started out intrigued, but that’s been knocked out of the way by panic. Bavidge can see it. Holmes is scared. More likely to do something stupid. More likely that this is about to turn nasty.

  Bavidge is moving fast. Has to, because of that look. Because Holmes knows why he’s there. And because of Norah. He’s one against two. She might not know what’s going on, but she’s going to work it out. She’s going to back her man. Probably. And she’s as tough as buggery, is Norah Faulkner. Dismiss her as the wife if you want, but a wife with a weapon is more dangerous than a man without. So Bavidge already has his hand in his pocket. Pulling out the Stanley knife. Clicking the blade up a single notch. Keep it short and manageable. Makes it much less likely to snap, which these blades are prone to doing. Moving round the side of the chair and closer to Holmes, before Holmes has half a chance to react.

  Bavidge just doesn’t get nervous. This is his life. Day in, day out. Dealing with people like Jim Holmes. Getting into violent and dangerous situations. You do it often enough, and you lose the fear of it. Bavidge lost that fear years ago. Only thirty-two, but he’s been around this life long enough not to worry about it. Not to fear the danger he’s putting himself in. Not to fear the pain that he might suffer if it goes wrong. Pain and suffering are part of the job. He’ll think about it afterwards. Sometimes he’ll even worry about it afterwards. But not at the time. Never at the time.

  So the knife is in his hand. Slashing out. If you didn’t know what to look for, you might think it was a wild swing of the arm. It wasn’t. He was aiming for the left cheek, and he got it. Not just got it, but caught it near the ear and is running the blade swiftly down towards the mouth. Not casual. Fast and certain. Finding the target with one swing. In the first couple of seconds afterwards, there’s very little of anything. Not a lot of blood. Just a thin red line welling up on Holmes’s face. Not a lot of reaction. Holmes has stumbled backwards a step, raising a hand towards his face but not touching the wound. He can feel the sting, but hasn’t realized how serious it is. Staring ahead at Bavidge. Norah is still standing by the living-room door. Watching.

  Now the reaction. Bavidge should have moved quicker after the slash. That was a mistake. Can’t afford two of those in one night. Holmes is lurching forwards. Shouting something that only made sense in his head. Loud and big and throwing himself at Bavidge. Trying to use size to intimidate and overwhelm. Worked for him many times before. Bavidge is ducking sideways. Holding the knife outward, hoping for a glancing blow. But Holmes is past him, and stumbling towards the couch. Not looking to tackle Bavidge, just looking to get past him. Stumbling towards the drinks cabinet behind the couch.

  Still shouting sentences constructed entirely of vowels. Like his fury is something the world deserves to hear about. And Norah joining in now. Screaming baffling words. A choir of panic. Bavidge is across to Holmes. Kicking the back of his leg and leaning in after the kick. Holmes going down beside the drinks cabinet. Hard on his knee, ignoring the pain. Still trying to reach for the little handle of the cabinet. There’s something in there. A weapon he wants to go for. Something he knows would turn the tide of this fight. Not today. Should have had it closer to hand. That was his mistake. Bavidge is down beside him. On his knees. Grabbing Holmes’s mouth in one hand and squeezing until the lips part. He saw a guy do this once. Years ago now: ‘Gully’ Fitzgerald. Tough bastard, had a lot of little tricks up his sleeve. Taught Bavidge this one. A good way to shut someone up and panic them. You get a man panicked, and the fight is yours. Quickly slashing the tip of the blade along the upper gum. Got a lot of tooth, but enough gum. Enough blood. As an injury, it’s little more than nuisance value. But it’s a scary nuisance for the first few minutes. A wound you can’t see, but can taste.

  Holmes is panicking. Thrashing around with both hands up to his mouth. The more he moves, the more the blood from the wound on his cheek spreads and spills. Now Norah’s screaming something they can all understand.

  ‘What did you do to him? What did you do to him?’

  Bavidge is beginning to lift himself up from his kneeling position. Something hits him in the back. Something big and solid. Jesus, Norah, you’re heavier than you look. Bavidge is taking a couple of steps backward. Straightening up and throwing her off. He’s not strong, but she doesn’t have much of a grip. No grip of anything at this point, to be fair. Bavidge needs to end this quickly before he totally loses control. Lost some, but has more than anyone else. Norah charging at him now. Bavidge pushes her back with his left hand, keeping the knife away from her. She isn’t a part of this. Don’t spread punishment any further than it needs to go. Basic rule. She’s stumbled backward. Crashing into the big TV and the little stand it’s on. The TV’s back against the wall, so it only tips over slightly. Nothing broken. Norah pausing, wheezing, and preparing her next attack. Bavidge has to stop her.

  ‘He was skimming money again,’ Bavidge is saying. Loud enough to break through the cacophony of stupidity from the other two. Surprised by the edge in his voice. It almost sounds nervous. Definitely sounded angry.

  Holmes is on his knees. Hands to his mouth. Ignoring everything and everyone. Forgetting about the old handgun he paid four hundred quid for and hid in the cabinet. Too late for that to do any good now. He’s rumbled. It’s been said. Norah’s on her backside, one arm back against the slanting TV. Looking at Bavidge and shaking her head.

  ‘No,’ she’s saying. ‘I warned him. It wasn’t him, it couldn’t have been. I warned him.’ She had no idea. Desperate for Bavidge to be wrong. Sure that he’s right. It’s broken them, silenced them.

  ‘It was him,’ Bavidge is saying. Quiet now. No need for raised voices. ‘Five per cent to start with. In the last couple of weeks he’s kicked it up to twenty. He knew we would notice. He had to know, but he did it anyway. He’s been preparing to run. Must have it all planned out.’

  He was not planning to take Norah with him. She’s shaking her head. Looking past Bavidge at Holmes. He’s still on his knees. Hands to his mouth. Blood through the fingers. Looking across at Norah. Ignoring Bavidge. He’s done all the damage he came to do. Delivered the message. One that will be seen and heard. The slash on the cheek lets everyone see the price of fucking with Billy Patterson. Holmes is looking at Norah. Norah’s looking back. It’s not a good way to end a relationship.

  Bavidge has clicked the blade back down inside the plastic handle and slipped the knife into his pocket. He’s pulling the dislodged cap back down over his head and walking out of the house. Leaving behind the mess of other people’s lives. Whatever happens with these two is their business. None of his. He just wants out. Away. The neighbours will have heard that racket. How could they not? Even if they’re scared of sticking their noses into Norah’s business, one of them will call the cops. Bavidge is into the car, and relieved to be driving away.

  Too late to call up his girlfriend. He’d already cancelled the date. Been doing that a lot lately. He’ll go home instead. Home alone. A small house, in a good part of town
. Quiet and simple, devoid of any good reason to want to spend time there. It’s a house that’s only ever been occupied by a single man. A man with no idea how to create something that even he would be happy in. He’s parked outside, gone in. Standing in the kitchen. Remembering Holmes’s house. Not the fight, not the screaming. The decoration and the effort. Norah, you could tell, made that house what it was. Nice and comforting. Homely. Bavidge is shaking his head. Of all the things to be jealous of. Have a couple of drinks and try to get some sleep. There’ll be more of this to come. Plenty more. It’s getting late.

  8

  It is late. Glass has been thinking about going home for a while now. Ella was right about this place. It is a nice club. There is a good quality of clientele. It is expensive. One of the reasons it isn’t his sort of place. It feels more buttoned up. The music isn’t so loud. The people are all a little richer than he’s used to hanging around. He feels out of place. He assumes everyone else has noticed that he’s out of place. These are smart people, they can tell. Ella hasn’t noticed. She’s having the time of her life.

  She was delighted when she got back to the flat and found that he had some money. She had some too. She had as much as she had been planning on spending that night. When she saw his five hundred, she suddenly planned to spend more. That’s why she’s having the time of her life. This is an escape for her. The chance to come to a place like this with her boyfriend, and her money. Not work, just play. The amount of fun she has seems to be directly linked to the amount she spends. The same is not true of Glass.