by Jay Nadal
The Lies They Told
Jay Nadal
Contents
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Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
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Published by 282publishing.com
Copyright @ Jay Nadal 2019
All rights reserved.
Jay Nadal has asserted his right to be identified as the author of this work.
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.
This book is a work of fiction, names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events other than those clearly in the public domain, are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
1
The desire for revenge gnawed away inside Dean Macholl’s mind. Like a rat. A giant sewer rat with sharp, pointy teeth. It was relentless, unceasing, and something that had consumed his thoughts for the past five years. His thirst for vengeance festered like a septic wound, and the only effective remedy was cold hard retribution. Anger and spite coursed through him like a poison intent on destruction. Driving him mad. Dean would bear a grudge until he died or took sweet revenge, whichever came first.
This was about settling old scores.
An unnecessary flight delay only infuriated him further. Usually, the short flight from Belgium back to London Heathrow only took just over an hour, but he still sat waiting in departures. Waiting like he had been for the past five years. To pass the dead time, he watched the suits, as he liked to call business people, scurrying to the departure gates, a sense of urgency contorting their faces. Children sat quietly with their parents, consumed with a Netflix film, or a computer game.
How different his life had been. Dean could just imagine parents placing a protective arm around their kids and coaxing them away from him if they knew he’d spent years locked behind bars. The thought of sitting near a con would no doubt send alarm bells ringing through them. A pariah who had no right to be out on the streets.
Once on the plane, he gazed out of the small window to his right at the grey blanket of clouds that masked the world below. His mind drifted back to his incarceration. Surrounded by four grubby white walls, there was nothing to do but stare at them for twenty-three hours a day. The paint had started to chip off with the passage of time or abuse by other prisoners – anything to fill the void, whilst slowly going mad, and theorising absurd meanings from the wall’s blank stare.
If they think UK prisons are a shithole, then they need to spend time in a Belgian prison. It was well documented that many Belgian prisons had difficult and inhumane conditions. With the prison overcrowded, and understaffed, he had often gone for two or three days without the opportunity for a shower. Cells and toilets were not cleaned, nor was rubbish removed. Many on the outside would argue that if you do the crime, you do the time, so he hadn’t expected sympathy. But that didn’t stop the haunting memories of abuse, torture and murders that were rife on the inside. If they didn’t get you physically, they would break you psychologically. Many escaped by taking their own lives.
Dean had imagined life beyond the barbed wire since the first day of his sentence. Now that he was free, it felt surreal. As if he were living in a dream. The luxury of stepping outside to his local to enjoy a pint or stopping off at his local chippy to get cod and chips. Simple pleasures that he could now experience.
The air stewardess trundled down the aisle, pushing her drinks trolley, glancing from side to side, repeating the same line she had said a thousand times. The bottles clinked and rattled as she came alongside him.
“Anything to drink, sir?” she asked.
Five years without a drink. He swallowed hard as his mouth moistened at the prospect of having his first drink. Spoiled for choice, he left the stewardess waiting as he considered his options.
“Whiskey, two bottles of whiskey,” he demanded.
The lack of politeness in his tone, caused the woman to raise a brow.
“And what mixers would you like, sir?” A tinge of frost laced her polite tone.
The man shook his head in response.
The stewardess sighed before passing the drinks across the seats to the man and taking his money. She offered him a smile, false but courteous, before hurrying along the aisle.
He swirled the whiskey in the plastic cup, listening to the chinking of the ice cubes, breathing in a fragrance that only years in an oak barrel could achieve. Just watching its gentle vortex was hypnotising, an aged single malt direct from Scotland. It was his one vice, and he intended to enjoy it, savour it, and not race to guzzle it. When the liquid settled, he brought it to his cracked lips and let the amber fluid sit in his mouth a short time before swallowing. He closed his eyes, dwelling only on the flavour. God it was good. It seared his throat on the way down.
By the second bottle the whiskey was having the desired effect, as his shoulders slumped, and his head rolled back into the seat. His thoughts turned to Jack Taylor, “Beanie” to those who knew him. Life should have been so different. One hundred and fifty thousand pounds should have been his share from their last job together. But Jack had screwed him over. It was the reason he’d gone on the run and fled the country. Short of money he had committed a string of robberies, the last of which had led to his capture and imprisonment.
He switched on the phone again and read the text message. A courier had delivered the phone to him in prison the day of his release. With no note attached, and no identifying marks on the brown jiffy bag, he had switched it on to discover one text message. A birthday celebration. Dean’s lips stiffened as he read the message once again. Is this Jack’s way of apologising and mending bridges? There were few who would have followed Dean’s incarceration and his subsequent release. But he was sure that Jack would have kept his ear to the ground, whilst waiting for Dean’s return.
Dean couldn’t determine the reason behind the invitation. Jack was brave, or stupid. He suspected the former. In all the time that he had known Jack, the man wore his bravado like a cloak. Just holding his gaze for more than a second or two had often resulted in a blinding flash of anger.
Jack was a man to be feared. On their last job, an uncomfortable feeling had captured Dean’s attention about Jack’s behaviour and the way he looked at him. Jack had a cold, aggressive and menacing stare, where his eyes were void of all emotion and the colour would drain from his face. It was the same stare he wore moments before erupting in a fit of rage and violence. It was a split-second transformation that didn’t offer the victim enough time to escape. Dean had lost count of the number of people that Jack had put in hospital, or an early grave. The stare had been the precursor to Jack pulling the trigger.
A bullet had hit Elaine Atkins as she stood behind the counter of the bookies. As Jack’s girlfriend, her role in the raid had been to disable the security system. Jack had spent months charming the woman. He’d lavished her with gifts, and taken her into his world of drinking and gambling dens, building society and security van raids, drug trafficking and extortion.
A smitten Elaine would do anything Jack asked of her. She adored his power, his wealth, his charm and his line of chat. Sadly, she’d been nothing more than an extra on his film set, unnoticed and unimportant.
An expendable pawn in his game.
Dean had reassured her that she’d be ok.
Jack, Jack. Why did you have to ruin everything, you moron?
Anger flashed through Dean once again. They had been on a roll, growing their businesses and their reputations. But Jack became unhinged, and that was their eventual downfall.
Dean’s thoughts were like a patchwork quilt, pieces that didn’t fit together but somehow formed the shape. He had so many questions that he didn’t know where to start.
It felt like they had just taken off when the captain announced that they were beginning their descent into London Heathrow. He strapped himself back in as another air hostess weaved from side to side as she made her way up the aisle checking that belts were fastened, and seats were in the upright position.
“See you soon, Beanie”, real soon.
He left the plane, and took in deep breaths of air. British air. It felt good to be back. He made his way through passport control, the officer at the desk giving him a cursory look as he stared at Dean’s picture. With short cropped greying hair, and an equally grey beard, there were distinguishing features missing from his passport photograph. He was also considerably thinner. His once tight leather jacket hung from his shoulders as if it belonged to someone else, and the belt on his jeans had been pulled in one extra notch. Dean stared back at the officer, keen to get through. Rules and regulations just incited his annoyance, along with people in uniform. He saw them as part of the institution, people who controlled his movements, people who controlled his life.
Dean despised being controlled.
“There you go, sir. Have a good day,” the officer said, sliding the passport through the gap in the glass shield.
Dean didn’t react as he retrieved it and moved off. He continued to walk at a steady pace through the airport, the throng of people waiting in arrivals overwhelming him. His heartbeat quickened, and his mouth dried. His eyes darted furtively through the crowd. Having been stuck in a prison cell for five years, he wasn’t used to being in a crowded space as he pushed his way through the milling travellers until he stepped on to the pavement. The smell of diesel oil, aviation fuel and cigarette smoke made his head spin.
He was home, and he had his freedom back and that felt good. He moved closer to where passengers huddled in a segregated area for smokers. They all stood looking at each other, aware of how antisocial their habit was. He tapped the Camel from his pack, and lit the end, the tobacco and paper sizzling in the flame. Inhaling, he let the nicotine hit every cell of his being, as he closed his eyes and savoured the moment.
Dean glanced around and looked for anyone who might be watching him from a distance. He looked for telltale signs like shifty eyes. A solitary male or female who looked out of place. He couldn’t see anyone that drew his attention. In a way, he had hoped she would be there to greet him, to throw her arms around him. It was wishful thinking on his part. Despite having no sense of urgency in his actions, he felt uneasy as if he needed to keep walking. Having not had the opportunity for five years, it felt awkward to move, or to walk any considerable distance. And yet he found himself wanting to do just that. To take extra-long steps, and swing his arms like a child, just because he could.
Dean smiled at the thought. He saw the sign for the London underground and made his way over to it. Next stop would be Holborn, London.
A phrase floated across his consciousness. One from prison that he’d recited many times. Now that he was free, he could say it out aloud. “One day I will hurt you. I promise. Your knife, my back. My gun, your head.”
2
An unassuming and family-run Italian business provided the venue for the party. Tucked away in a quiet street in Holborn, Central London, it offered the discretion needed where “jobs” were discussed. Three post office raids, two security truck raids, the last being in Clerkenwell a few weeks ago, and the delivery of countless drugs, had been planned and agreed here. From the outside it looked like a typical Italian restaurant, with dark mood lighting, red and white checked tablecloths, hanging baskets of flowers, and Italian specials written in chalk on an A-frame blackboard.
Many Londoners who passed by wouldn’t have noticed the two men loitering on either side of the door. They were both thickset, and bald; one more muscular, the other carrying more than a few extra pounds around his waistline. Their eyes shifted back and forth, watching each car and taxi that cruised by. Each passer-by that came within a few inches of them, sparking their attention, stiffened their shoulders in a passive-aggressive way. Their job was to look for any signs of trouble. Any threat that could pose a risk to life to those that they guarded. Those inside had more than their fair share of enemies, people they had double-crossed, crime families they had disrespected, and families they’d left in tatters. Not that it bothered them.
“Are you sure they won’t mind us coming?” Molly asked.
Harry placed a protective arm around her shoulder and pulled her in closer before placing a soft kiss on the top of her head. At six foot two, he towered over her by a foot. Topping the scales at thirteen stones, he looked powerful and athletic, and far older than his twenty years. Those characteristics had attracted her to him. She felt safe in his presence and protected when wrapped in his arms. He offered a pleasant distraction and heart-warming relief to what she had been through in life. As clichéd as it was to say, Harry was her rock.
“Will you chillax. Ben was the one who invited us. And his mum is cool with that.”
She rolled her bottom lip across her teeth in nervous anticipation. “Yeah, I know. You keep telling me that. But we don’t really know them. Not really. Well, you do… And… But I don’t. Besides…” Her voice trailed off as she made a hash of what she was trying to say.
Harry laughed. “Listen, you know Ben, and you’ve met his mum. And to be honest, I won’t know half the people there, either. I’m not messing, but you look cracking in that dress and I bet all eyes will be on you.”
That’s what she feared. For most of her life, eyes had been on her. Some welcomed, but many unwelcomed. Something in a man’s eyes gave it away. Until meeting Harry, she had met few who had soft, caring and se
nsitive eyes. The majority had been cold, dark, menacing or lecherous. They had undressed her with their eyes as they travelled the length of the body, fantasising about what they would do to her.
With dark brown eyes and matching dark brown hair that cascaded midway down her back, she cast a striking image. She rarely wore make-up, which Harry loved. He kept reassuring her that her natural complexion and freckles made her look endearing. She had a slight frame, not through choice but because of circumstances and upbringing. But she hid it well in the skintight black dress she wore this evening, its hem riding daringly high. Harry had struggled to keep his eye on the road as he stroked her soft, milky inner thigh. She had parted her legs in response, yearning his touch that sent shivers racing through her body. She had gasped as his fingers had explored beneath her knickers, her reaction instant as she pushed back into the seat and moistened to his touch.
She wrapped her arms around her chest and stared at the pavement as they walked. Sensing her anxiety, he sought to reassure her further.
“Trust me; it will be fine. Besides you’ll be sitting next to me. We turn up, have something to eat, and then make our excuses. The main thing is that we show our faces. I think Ben would be pretty pissed off if we didn’t come. And to be honest, the birthday boy will love the attention, and he’ll be splashing the cash, cigars, champagne, the whole works. Give it an hour and he’ll be off his head, and that will be our cue to leave.”
