The Fighter

by Robert White

  But not before I’d rested my body.

  I’d slept most of the day away, and in that time, many more texts had appeared. They all followed the same theme.

  Are you avoiding me? X

  Can we have dinner? X

  Are you okay? X

  Please call, I’m worried X

  I was worried too. Larry the text pest wasn’t the Larry I knew. I was, of course, aware that he’d taken a major knock, during our investigation into Todd Blackman’s murder. He’d been suspended, and during that suspension, I’d made him realise that he could have prevented further bloodshed by helping us. This had weighed heavy on him. Larry was one of the good guys whose dedication to his job was paramount in his life. He’d played by the rules from being a teen and could see no other way of working. I’d tried to show him that sometimes, rules were meant to be broken and that life wasn’t always black and white.

  But, scrolling his messages, I understood more than anything, that not only had I attempted to change his philosophy towards the law, but I’d given him false hope. I’d allowed him to believe that we could one day be an item. It was time to play the game and be straight with him. I looked at my phone again and counted twenty seven texts and eleven missed calls.

  Not good.

  Despite this erratic behaviour and my reluctance to be seen in public with our pet Detective Chief Inspector, I wasn’t a coward, and he deserved to be told what was happening face to face. Now I know what you’re probably thinking, I’d made my own bed and all that, but everyone deserves a second chance. I knew I wanted to be with Rick, and Larry would get over it.

  Wouldn’t he?

  I sat on the end of my bed, my wet hair wrapped in a towel, and again stared at the screen of my phone.

  How do you play this one then?

  I didn’t have much time to think. The set rang in my hand, making me jump so much, I almost dropped it. It was, of course, Larry.

  “Hello Darling,” he breathed. “My word, you are hard to get hold of.”

  “You know me, always busy… How is Kaya and Grace?” I asked, doing my best to keep the conversation away from drunken sexual exploits and his recent stalking activities.

  “They’re good,” he said. “Both at home. Kaya has some speech issues, but with therapy, should fully recover. We have a patrol at the house for the time being, but they can’t stay there indefinitely. I could do with picking your brains, actually. We need to know what the threat level is likely to be.”

  He lowered his voice. “Why don’t you tell me over dinner? I’ll pick you up, say eight? I’ve booked a lovely table at Dimitri’s. Dress nice uh?”

  And he cut the call.

  I sat open mouthed and scrolled his messages again.

  Enough of this shit. Grow a set, Lauren. You’ve played far harder ball than this.

  By harder ball, I meant with my ex-husband. I’d met him whilst working at Leeds General Hospital. I was a trainee nurse, just turned twenty one and about as naïve as you could get. He, on the other hand, was a junior doctor, handsome, full of confidence with all the right words in all the right places. I fell so hard, I didn’t think I would ever get up. We had the perfect romance, and within two years, we were married. I looked forward to wedded bliss, a lovely home, kids, hot summer holidays.

  Like I said, just about as naïve as you could get.

  Our careers progressed, and he became a specialist, respected throughout his profession. To the outside world he was a good guy, Mr fucking perfect. No one, my mother, my best friend, Jane, no one knew he beat me. I spent more time covering my injuries than I did preparing his food. For weeks, he could be the model husband, attentive, loving, generous. Yet if things didn’t go his way, he would become a violent psychotic.

  And I don’t just mean a one-off slap in the middle of a drunken row. I mean systematic punishment. Carefully placed blows and kicks. I even have the scars of two cigarette burns that are hidden by my hair.

  Leaving him was the hardest thing I’d ever done in my life. He pestered me for two years. Everyone thought I was insane, that I was having a secret affair or something. People talked behind my back. What a bitch I was, leaving such a wonderful young man. After all, he had given me everything and I was just an ungrateful girl from a working class background.

  I remember one day, my father came to see me in my little flat. He was a butcher by trade, rose each day at four in the morning, never home until five at night. He was my hero, he gave me everything and never asked for a single thing in return. All I had to hold on to during that time, was my father’s trust and love.

  I remember, he sat on my sofa and asked me what I was thinking of. Why was I dragging the family into the disgrace of divorce? Why had I become so thankless?

  That hurt me more than any blow I’d taken, more than any kick or punch.

  No, giving Larry the elbow, was going to be easy by comparison.

  I stood and walked to my wardrobe.

  Now, what to wear for the event?

  * * *

  Larry indeed collected me at exactly eight. He wore a pale grey single breasted suit, pink cotton open necked shirt, and brown leather brogues. As I slipped into the passenger seat of his Jaguar, he smelled and looked delicious.

  I’d opted for the tried and trusted, LBD, but one that fell to the knee and sported a fairly conservative neckline. Not that Larry hadn’t seen all that I had to offer, but I figured that as this night was going to end at the dinner table, it was best not to inflame his already red hot ardour.

  Dimitri’s Taverna had been serving Mediterranean dishes on Deansgate for over 15 years. Nestled in Campfield Arcade it was a lively establishment infamous for its Greek mezze. Inside was all traditional red and white checked tablecloths and vibrant timeless décor. On our mission to Corfu, I’d visited some lovely little eateries in the village of Arillas, and fallen in love with the Greek food and way of life. As I stepped into the doorway, I secretly hoped that I could return with Rick, maybe even visit the Greek Islands again, and spend a lazy summer there.

  As I shook myself out of my daydream, I was pleased to see a live band setting up in one corner. At least if the conversation waned, I had some traditional Greek music to listen to.

  We were ushered to our table by a very pretty Greek girl wearing a white Polo and black skirt. She announced her name as Maria and gave us our menus. As the band began to play, I was once again transported back to Corfu and its wonderful people. As I sat, my warm thoughts were also tinged with sadness as those same memories brought back images of JJ Yakim and how he’d given his life for ours over in Albania.

  “Drinks?” asked our waitress.

  “Water for me,” I said with a smile. “Work in the morning.”

  Larry gave me a look. “Aww come on, darling. This is a celebration. Surely a wine at least?” He turned to our waitress. “Champagne, please, a bottle of Moet.”

  The evening was going to be difficult enough, and I had no intention of getting drunk. I smiled sweetly, “That’s fine, Larry, I’ll have a glass with you, but I’d still like the water.”

  The girl turned on her heels and we were alone.

  “What are we celebrating?” I asked.

  “All will be revealed,” said Larry with an impish grin. He lifted his menu. “Now, what do you fancy? The food here is delicious and I’m ravenous.” He gave me a lustful look, “For the food, and for you, Lauren…. Now, you must try the keftedes.”

  I scanned my own menu feeling ever so slightly like I needed a second shower, “I think, I’d like the Kalamarakia,” I said.

  He gave me another strange look. Stern, demanding even.

  “But the keftedes are wonderful here. You must try them.”

  It was more of an order than a suggestion. Our eyes met and I nodded slowly.

  “Okay… why don’t you just order f
or the both of us?”I began to feel the way I used to when I dined out with my ex-husband. This was just his way, controlling, challenging, ever forceful. And more often than not, his mood would continue into the bedroom. And if that didn’t satisfy his lust for dominance, I would end up with bruises to cover.

  Larry smiled at my submission and rested both palms on top of his menu. “I’ll do just that, shall I? … ah the Champagne is here.”

  The cork was popped, and the liquid poured. I took a sip and felt the need to talk business, anything but romance, relationships, or Rick Fuller.

  “So, Kaya is recovering well, that’s good news. Thanks for helping us out there.”

  Larry gulped his glass down in one and for the first time, I noticed a nervous twitch around his eye.

  “Are you alright, Larry?” I asked. “You don’t seem yourself.”

  He darkened and I instantly admonished myself for falling foul of my own advice.

  “Yes,” he snapped. “I’m fine, working hard as ever, you know trying to catch up after those fools suspended me. And for what, eh? Nothing, just so some overblown religious fanatic could get his next promotion.”

  “I just wanted to know about Kaya, Larry,” I said, doing my best to steer him back to reality.

  “The kid’s fine,” he sniffed. “Or should be with a little help. The mother was most uncooperative regarding the perpetrators though. I got the feeling that the matter had been dealt with… in house. If you know what I mean?” Once again, I got the hard stare. “You wouldn’t know anything about that would you, Lauren?”

  I had no intention in divulging any part of our little soiree into a Lancashire traveller’s encampment, so simply shook my head and went to open my water. Larry shot a hand across the table and grabbed my wrist, not hard enough to leave his mark, but enough to get my attention. This was not going well.

  “Please, Lauren,” he said with the fakest smile ever. “I’ve missed you. Have a proper drink.”

  I locked eyes with him again. “I think you should let go of my arm, Larry,” I said.

  He did as he was asked and smiled again, sweeter this time, but it still didn’t reach his eyes.

  “Of course, sorry, I didn’t mean to…”

  “It’s okay,” I said. “Why don’t you just order?”

  With the food on its way, Larry seemed to calm down somewhat. The old affable, witty Larry was making an appearance. Over dinner, there was well over an hour of small talk. He asked his typical questions about my work and I, as usual, fobbed him off. There were a couple of veiled snide remarks about Rick, but all in all, it wasn’t too difficult, the food was excellent, and I had begun to relax about what I was about to do.

  Just before ten, the lights in the restaurant were dimmed and the bouzouki player from the band wandered over to our table and began to sing.

  “Romantic,” I said with more than a hint of confusion.

  “‘The song is called, ‘An eisai ena asteri,’” said Larry. “It speaks of a man’s love. He asks that if his woman is a star, burning bright, that she only shines for him.”

  At that, he left his seat and walked around to my chair. I still hadn’t got the picture, but I was about to, in full colour. Falling to his knees, he removed a small box from inside his jacket and opened it to reveal a diamond ring.

  “Lauren, you are my star,” he said. “Would you do me the honour of being my wife?”

  The whole room went up like it was midnight on New Year. Cheers, whoops, applause. The owner was over with a second bottle of Moet. There must have been a dozen women in that room, looking at me and thinking I was the luckiest girl on earth. A strapping handsome guy, on his knees, proposing marriage in the most romantic of ways.

  I thought I would be sick.

  Somehow, I managed a smile. He took my hand in his and slipped the ring on my finger. There were even more cheers from the crowd. The owner popped the Moet and the band burst into full swing.

  Thankfully, just before I threw my meatballs all over Larry’s pale grey number, he returned to his seat and the lights went up.

  “That was quite a shock,” I said, swallowing bile, unable to hide my surprise.

  “I’m nothing if not spontaneous,” smiled Larry. He reached across the table and took my hand. “I don’t sleep around, Lauren. That night, our night together, was very important to me. It cemented our love for one another. This is the most natural step forward.”

  “Our love?”

  “Yes, I love you. You love me, it’s obvious. We should make the arrangements immediately, the church, and the honeymoon. Of course you will have to give up that crazy job you have. I mean, you can’t possibly be around Fuller anymore. He’s such a bad influence on you. You should go back to nursing. I can help you with that.”

  I pulled my hand from his and slipped off the ring. My head spun.

  “Help me? Leave my work? Leave Rick? Marry you? Are you mad, Larry? Are you having some kind of breakdown? I don’t love you. What happened between us was a drunken mistake, surely you must be able to see that? I like you. You’re a handsome, intelligent, decent guy, but I’m sorry, this is crazy. I came here tonight to tell you that Rick and I are going to give our relationship a go. That I wouldn’t, couldn’t, ever see you again.”

  I stood. “I’m really sorry, Larry… Good luck… Goodbye.”

  Standing on the pavement trembling with emotion, I looked up and down Deansgate hoping to see a cab with its light illuminated. As I stood there, the crowds of Manchester filing by, I felt a strong push in my back almost sending me into the traffic. As I staggered, I was grabbed by the wrist and a napkin was thrust into my hand.

  Larry strode away without a word.

  I opened my fist and noticed that something had been written on the paper. I read the text then looked as Larry disappeared into the crowd.

  ‘You’ll be sorry,’ it said.

  Rick Fuller’s Story:

  I was so exhausted that I slept until late afternoon. Rolling out of bed, I pulled on my running gear, and tried to clear my head by taking a late run. I managed a little over 10k then stepped into my home gym and worked my back and biceps.

  I always felt better after a workout. No matter how bad things were, I could always put things in order as I ran or worked my muscles. It seemed that the simplicity of exercise brought order to my life.

  What Cartwright had asked me to do, was not only dangerous, but it could get us all locked up until Spurs won another title. The old spy believed that the coffin full of cocaine was destined for a major UK supplier and that no one but Al-Mufti himself would have been trusted to complete that deal. In Cartwright’s thinking, Al-Mufti would have wanted to dispense with me and then complete the transaction for the charlie. Therefore we both agreed, that our enemy wouldn’t be too far away, maybe even in the UK. However, his plans were now in tatters, and the Egyptian could only assume one of two outcomes. His drugs and guns were in the hands of the authorities, or my good self, a man who had tried to kill him, been hounded from the SAS in disgrace and worked for the most ruthless drug lords in England. Either way, he would not be a happy bunny.

  Cartwright was very keen to let Al-Mufti think the latter. The Egyptian would come for me. Come to Manchester and take his revenge.

  To make this little ruse work, the old spy needed a deep cover team, a crew full of experience in urban combat and an intimate knowledge of the UK’s drug culture. A group of individuals with the bottle to take on the boys at the top of the tree and discover just who was waiting for that five million pounds worth of pure cocaine to be delivered.

  That, of course, was us.

  We would play our new role, muscling in on the mean streets of Manchester, breaking some legs, making some noise and letting it be known that the lack of happiness powder could be rectified by yours truly, but only for the right price and the right informa
tion.

  I’d done it before. Joel Davies took me on because I made a show in the Hacienda one night. I’d shown him just how ruthless I was, and just how much he needed someone like me. The Davies’ of this world were all the same. Once they got to the level of buying a hundred keys of charlie in one hit, it wasn’t about the cash anymore, it was all about power.

  However, this ruse was anything but simple. I say this because it wasn’t just as straightforward as walking up to a well-known Manchester dealer and asking him if he was in the market for five million pounds worth of Brazilian marching powder. For a start, I’d lost touch with the really big players, certainly those with that kind of coin. To be fair, most of them were dead, and anyone in their right mind, and believe me, drug dealers at that level are very smart cookies, would smell an almighty rat. New faces, even those like yours truly with some previous, are viewed with considerable suspicion.

  If Cartwright did his job right, Al-Mufti would be telling his buyer that he’d been ripped off, and that his coke was in the hands of a man called Fuller, a man with Manchester connections. It would only be a matter of time before the big boys came asking for their ball back.

  Of course, if it went wrong, we were totally deniable, and if we got caught, Larry Simpson and his cronies would be laughing us all the way to Strangeways.

  One difference to all the other jobs The Firm had recruited us for, was that this particular cunning plan, was put in place by Cartwright himself. Not even Whitehall would know about it. His concern over a high flying informant and his inherent distrust of the CIA, meant that this job was to be the most secret of them all. Until it came time to pay our bill, of course.

  The old spy wanted us to turn the screw on the mid-level boys first. Tax them and cut the last of the stock to the street dealers, bleeding the city dry. You see, the cocaine business is like the car manufacturing trade. Ford don’t have all the parts to make a car just sitting in a yard in the back. They have a supply chain that is on demand. Stockpiled car parts are an expensive commodity. Now, the boys that sell gram bags in your local pub on a Friday night, don’t have a couple of ounces of pure sat in their front room either. They buy from the guy above them on a Friday lunchtime, cut it, bag it and sell it. By Sunday, it’s all gone up the good folk’s hooters and the game starts again. Now the same applies to the Al Pacino type character that was awaiting Al-Mufti’s very expensive oak casket. His last delivery would already be in the system, which meant his cocaine cupboard was currently bare and the party goers of the UK were about to be disappointed. With what I had in mind; we could make sufficient waves within days. Slap the mid ranking boys about a bit, nick what was left of their stash and point out that there was a new show in town. A new show in possession of a very large quantity of beak. In drug dealing terms, from zero to hero in less than four days. Whatever part of the country our big hitter came from, once Al-Mufti gave him my name, it wouldn’t be long before things got really naughty. The buyer would have to save face, come looking, and, if we were really lucky, Al-Mufti wouldn’t be far behind him.