The Night the Rich Men Burned

by Malcolm Mackay

Not the last one. Doesn’t know how to do that without causing a scene. And he won’t go home. Potty will want to know why he went home so easily. He’ll accuse Glass of chickening out. And he’d be right. There’s relief coursing through him right now. The glimmer of hope that this might not happen. But he won’t go home. He’ll hang around on the street. He knows what the target looks like. Seen him before. He’ll keep watching. He has to. He just has to. For Ella. For himself.

  11

  Bavidge just had another meeting with Patterson. He’s narrowed down a list of freelancers he’s thinking of using. Has to be careful. Has to be someone with a bit of talent. There aren’t that many to choose from. Has to be someone they can trust to do a good job. Won’t be someone they trust with the truth. Nobody will get the truth. So it needs to be someone who isn’t too inquisitive. Won’t go looking for facts they’re not supposed to know. Only Patterson and Bavidge will know the truth. They’ll try to persuade the gunman that he’s working for Marty. Try and make sure word gets out. Drop Marty in it. Maybe drop the gunman in it too. That’s the risk of his job.

  But it doesn’t feel like a safe plan. Feels like there’s too much outside of their control. Make or break, probably. Either get rid of Potty or be destroyed by him. The way of the world. The way of the business. But they should have something more solid than this to base the risk on. Bavidge is driving home. Get some sleep. It’s the only time he’s not working. Right now, his work makes him unhappy, so sleep is a good idea.

  Pulling into the street and parking outside the house. Usual spot. This isn’t even his car, it belongs to Patterson. Bavidge will use it for the next few days for meetings with the gunman. Using a car that can’t be linked directly to him as a precaution. They can’t be sure that the gunman won’t try and get in contact with Marty. That he won’t smell a rat and go looking for answers. So you take the precaution of using a different car so that you can start to deny things. Pretend it wasn’t you. Always fucking pretending.

  Not looking at the world around him. Trying not to think about it. The holes in the plan. The fact, and Bavidge is convinced it is a fact, that something’s bound to go wrong. If something small goes wrong, they’ll be okay. Something big and all the little precautions in the world won’t help them. Forget it. He just wants to get into bed and try to forget that the world exists. Opening the car door and stepping out onto the pavement without checking.

  He can see the movement before he feels it. Someone lurching at him. Coming round the back of the car and getting beside him, their hand reaching out. Something jabs at Bavidge’s arm. He knows straight away. It’s a knife. This is the end. He doesn’t have anything to defend himself with. Some kid with a knife. All he can do is throw himself at the man. Try and fight back. But the man isn’t thinking properly. He isn’t trying to pick his stabs. He’s flailing wildly. The knife comes down across Bavidge’s face. Another swing across his stomach. This time a jab that goes deep into his stomach.

  Glass has let go of the knife, leaving it in just below the ribcage. Bavidge is still standing. Beginning to slump backwards. Glass is reaching out, grabbing him. Steering him back down into the driver’s seat of the car. His legs out on the pavement. Then panic. Nothing but panic. All Glass can think about is leaving the body here. He can’t do that. He shouldn’t do that. People will see. They’ll see him. This is . . . wrong. He has to do a good job for Potty. This is wrong. Just move it. Get it into the car.

  He’s lifting up the legs, forcing them into the car. Bavidge is still alive. Groaning a little. But he isn’t resisting. Doesn’t have the strength. His head is across on the passenger seat now, his body across the centre console. He’s trying to say something. Something Glass doesn’t want to hear. He wants to get out of here. His hands have blood on them. Jesus, he’s going to be sick.

  Lights. Coming round the corner at the far end of the street. Coming towards them. Glass is frozen. Standing, watching the car approaching. Passing them. The driver looking at him. Looking right at him. Eye contact. And now slowing down. He’s gone twenty yards past them, but he’s slowing to a stop on the road. Not pulling over. Stopping in the middle of the road. Stopping to intervene.

  It’s just panic. Crazy, think-of-nothing panic. If that guy comes over and demands to know what’s going on, Glass won’t have an answer. All he’ll have is bloody hands and a body. He’s getting into the car. Didn’t think about it. Just getting into the car. Sitting in the driver’s seat. Bavidge’s legs are still in the footwell of the driver’s seat. Hardly enough room for him to close the door. Glass is pulling the door shut, forcing himself in.

  ‘Come on,’ he’s growling. Crying. Properly this time. His shoulders rocking. His eyes filled. ‘Move over,’ he’s pleading to Bavidge.

  Bavidge making some sort of response. A low groan, but trying to pull his legs across. Closing his eyes hard and whimpering at the pain of effort. Glass pushing Bavidge’s legs across the gearstick and into the footwell on the passenger’s side. Bavidge reaching out a hand. The keys. He has the keys in his hand. He’s giving them to Glass. And Glass is taking them. Starting the car. Looking in his mirror as the driver’s door of that other car opens. A man getting out onto the road and walking slowly towards them. Glass has the car started, and he’s pulling out. Racing down the street.

  It’s taken him three streets to remember to put the lights on. He hasn’t stopped at a junction. If this was any other time of the day, he’d have hit something by now. But we’re past midnight, and the streets are just quiet enough. Driving. No idea where. Just going straight ahead. Driving to nowhere. Getting distance between himself and the witness. Now looking at Bavidge and realizing that he should have run. Should have left him to die in his car, and run. Now he’s with a dying man, driving through the city. This is much worse.

  ‘I don’t know where to go,’ Glass is saying quietly. ‘I don’t know.’

  Bavidge isn’t answering. He’s slumped against the passenger door. Bent over, his eyes shut. His mouth is slightly open; he’s making groaning noises every now and again, but less and less often. He doesn’t seem to be aware. Not hearing or seeing or understanding any more. So Glass has to make the decision. But he has no idea. He’s just driving. Checking his mirror to make sure that other car hasn’t tried to follow. Trying to work out where he is now. Trying to drive the car properly. Too nervous to focus on any one thing. The pedals a little too far away with the seat pushed back the way the taller Bavidge likes it. The blood on his hands now on the gearstick, meaning it slips from his hand every time he tries to change gear. And still that disconnected feeling, like this is something he can do nothing about.

  It’s taken him too long to realize that he’s driving into the city centre. Now that he has realized, he’s also realizing that he has to get out of the car. Get away from Bavidge. Get away from the whole situation. The smell, the silence, the fear of it. Get away. Potty told him. He said to get him on the doorstep. Hit and run. Don’t hang around. Get it done and get out of there. But he’s still here. Ten minutes after stabbing him and he still has Bavidge sitting beside him, bleeding onto the floor of the car.

  Now he’s just thinking about stopping. Can’t think of anything else. Find somewhere, anywhere, to stop. Anywhere that doesn’t have people. That’s all you need. Indicating to turn right at a junction. Realizing that it’s quieter left and going that way. He hasn’t even thought about CCTV. He won’t either. This is desperation. The only thing that will save him is luck.

  Onto a narrower street, going downhill. Doesn’t seem to be anyone around. That’s a start. Looking left and right as he drives. Lots of little shops with flats above them. Nondescript. Not the sort of place people hang around late at night. No pubs or clubs, although Glass hasn’t picked up on that. He just likes the loneliness of it. There. A gap between two buildings. Leads to the rear of the buildings. Leads out of sight. You can get a car into that gap. Course you can. He’s turning. Into the alleyway. But there isn’t room for
a car behind the buildings. It’s just a pathway behind the buildings with a high wall. He has to park in the alleyway. Shaking now, struggling to keep a hold of the steering wheel. Stopping too close to a wall on the passenger side. Now he won’t be able to get Bavidge out that side. Reversing back and straightening, to give himself more room.

  Switching the engine off. Leaving the keys in the ignition. Surprised by the intimidating brightness in the alleyway. Switching off the lights. Getting out of the car and going round to the passenger side. Just as he’s opening the passenger door, a car goes past on the street. It goes past, doesn’t sound like it’s slowing down. Bavidge is now leaning halfway out of the car. Groaning louder.

  ‘You have to get out,’ Glass is saying. Reaching down and trying to help him out. Trying to lift him by one arm and giving up. His nerves have exhausted him.

  Bavidge is trying. He is. Willing to go wherever he’s led. Long past the point of resistance. Long past the point of caring what happens, just hoping it happens soon. He wants this to be over. That’s the only thought in his head now. Finish it. But he can’t lift himself out of the car. Can’t put weight on his legs.

  ‘Please, help me,’ Glass is saying. Pleading.

  Another car goes past as he’s dragging Bavidge from the car. Taking Bavidge under the arms and dragging him out onto the concrete. Pushing the passenger door shut to make room. Dragging him round in front of the car and laying him down slowly. Trying to be careful. Trying to be gentle. Looking down at the young man he’s killed. Bavidge looking aimlessly past him. Looking at the sky above. Blinking heavily. Breathing short and fast. Too much effort.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Glass is saying. ‘I’m so sorry.’ He doesn’t know if Bavidge even heard him. Doesn’t seem like it.

  He’s three steps past the car when he decides to take it. He needs distance between himself and Bavidge. Doesn’t matter if someone sees him in the car. He doesn’t care about precautions. He just wants to be away. He’s turning back and opening the car door. Bavidge is moving. He just moved. Trying to pull himself somewhere. Groaning. Glass can’t watch this. Can’t take any more of it.

  Into the car, the seat still wet with Bavidge’s blood. The passenger seat and footwell are thick with it. Stinking. Turning the key, into reverse. Lurching backwards out of the alley, almost catching the wall. Turning on the road. A screech of brakes behind him and the honking of an angry horn. A glance in his mirrors and he can see that he’s pulled out into the path of an oncoming car. Lucky it didn’t hit him. It’s seen him though. Seen him and will remember him. The idiot rushing out of that alley late at night. But Glass isn’t thinking about that. He’s just putting it into first and hitting the accelerator. Getting away from Bavidge.

  He’s driven for the best part of three minutes before he remembers to switch the lights on again. Went past plenty of other cars and pedestrians in that time. All of them will have noticed the car with no lights. Now the panic of getting away from Bavidge has been replaced with the panic of getting rid of the car. Looking for anywhere to park. Doesn’t matter where. Just anywhere.

  The car park of a supermarket. Pulling in and stopping. Switching off the lights and the engine. Jumping out of the car. Slamming the door shut behind him and taking two steps back, looking back at it with disgust. He’s parked as far from the building as he can. Now walking slowly over to the shrubbery at the edge of the car park. Bending over and vomiting. Twice. And then a rush of relief. It’s gotten rid of the some of the nerves. It’s forcing him to realize where he is.

  A long way from home. Wearing bloodstained clothes. A knife with his prints still embedded in Alan Bavidge. Fingerprints and DNA all over a blood-drenched car. And he’s crying again. Hunching down and crying loud. Shouting between sobs. There’s nobody here. He wouldn’t care if there were. This is over. Everything’s over. He just killed a man. Stabbed him and left him to die. His life is over.

  PART FOUR

  1

  It’s only the third time he’s seen him since he moved out. Three times in, what, over six months. Didn’t expect to see his grandson every bloody day. Glad of a little space, to be honest. The tiny flat has felt more like his home since the boy moved out. Not having to make room for the lad, not having him hear every conversation. The walls have always been paper-thin; a little privacy is worth a lot. But he didn’t expect to have to track him down like this. Didn’t expect that his grandson would avoid him the way he has.

  Everyone says he’s changed. They say he’s become tough, a little schemer. Everyone who knew him before and knows him now. Aren’t many of those. Oliver seems to be doing his damnedest to ditch anyone who knew him before. Arnie isn’t so sure about this great change. Oliver was always sharp. Always wanted more for himself than he could get. He wasn’t the toughest kid, but he was never what you would call sympathetic. Never emotional. Kept people at a distance. That’s probably what makes his work so easy for him. Doesn’t think of people as people. Arnie blames his parents. Always did. Ditching the kid like that. Feckless pair of bastards.

  Now he’s running this business. A business that benefits from his way of thinking. Creating a completely new life for himself. Know what? Arnie would be fine with that if it was the right kind of life. There’s something admirable about a young man striding off into the world and building a new life for himself. If he felt he needed to cut old ties to do that, Arnie would respect it. A young man, just gone past his twenty-first birthday, and he already has his own little company. His own flat. His own life. But it’s a rotten life. And that’s why Arnie’s tracking him down.

  Arnie knew what Oliver was doing. He knew he was debt collecting. Scraping the bottom of the barrel. Arnie sat in his little flat every day and felt disgusted. Felt ashamed. But he did nothing. Did nothing because he hoped it might not be true. Hoped that maybe it was a short-term thing. That happens. A kid making money. Then the kid finds another way to make some dough. A better way. Maybe a more glamorous one. Less risky. And he moves away from the dirty side of life. But that’s six months, and the stories he’s hearing keep getting worse.

  There’s a middle-aged woman who lives in the next block of flats along from Arnie’s. He doesn’t know her, but he knows of her. Friends of friends, that sort of thing. Anyway, this woman borrowed money. Stupid thing to do, let’s be honest. Arnie despairs of people who would borrow in the first place, given what happens. Always ends badly. Mind you, moneylenders can advertise on TV now. See it all the time. It’s in danger of becoming acceptable. They’re letting the sharks play in the swimming pool.

  So this middle-aged woman, Kirsty something or other. She borrowed money and didn’t pay it back. Couldn’t, at the rates they were charging. The lender sold the debt to a collector. The collector sent someone round to intimidate her. She still couldn’t pay. You can intimidate someone as much as you want; fear doesn’t make money. So they started taking her stuff. Furniture, that sort of thing. She tried to stop the two thugs who had barged into her flat. So they beat her up. Not life-threatening or anything like that, but they knocked a couple of teeth out of her head. Left her all cut and bruised. Just about scared the life out of the poor woman.

  Arnie heard the story and he shook his head. What kind of people would do that to a woman? Two days later he heard the story again, and it had grown a few hideous details. Grown to include the name of the collector who had sent his men round to steal her furniture. Who sent another one round when she was back from hospital the day after the beating to warn her to keep her mouth shut. They were saying it was Oliver Peterkinney.

  Shame? He’s never felt anything like it. His grandson sending nasty bastards round to beat up women. Never felt so humiliated in all his life. Let’s make no mistake about it: he’s done some things he’s been ashamed of in his time. Things he wouldn’t admit to, to you or to anyone else. But they were minor compared to this. The boy he helped raise, doing a thing like this. It’s a humiliation. He knows it, and so does everyone else.
>
  Which is what’s brought him here. Walking across the road and towards the entrance of Oliver’s office. His own little office building. Been here a while. Established, is what they call it. Beyond the point where he’s a newbie who might fail at the first hurdle. Nope, he’s past that hurdle and halfway down the running track. He’s established now. That means people take him seriously. Fear him. Huh.

  Arnie didn’t want to come here. Would rather have met Oliver anywhere but here. Wanted to meet him at his flat, but he’s moved again. Got a new address that he didn’t bother to share with his grandfather. Moved again about a month ago. Moved to another flat in a more upscale part of town. Going up in the world, and obviously wants his home to show that. Bringing in a lot of other people’s money. Wants the world to see how upwardly mobile he is. Wow the world with his success, like it’s something to be proud of. Didn’t bother to tell his grandfather where he was going.

  Couldn’t turn up at his flat. Called the office and got fobbed off by that nasal little lickspittle he employs. So this is the last resort. Turning up at the office and giving the boy no option but to talk. Because, by God, he is going to talk. He is going to explain himself. If he can’t explain himself very well indeed then he is going to listen.

  Arnie’s across the street and opening the door. Stepping into the little office. Small place, but that’s all you need when your job is intimidating the vulnerable. That doesn’t take much space, does it? But they won’t be here long. Arnie would bet on it. They’ll stay in the area because people associate them with this area. But they’ll get somewhere bigger. Somewhere they don’t even need. To look big and clever. Intimidate people with their growth. And to cover their tracks. How much of this money has to be laundered? What other filthy practices do they use to get that done?