Brick

by Conrad Jones

  “What are we going to do, Joe?”

  “We’re going to find out where they have taken it and get it back.”

  “How?”

  “Get the others in here quickly and check the rest of the place over. Pull it to pieces, search every inch of it. There must be something that we can use to find them.”

  “Okay,” Tommy frowned. “But what are we looking for?”

  “Look for anything that tells us where they might have relocated to. There’s no way that they have closed down the operation completely.” Tucker waited while Tommy called their men.

  “How do you know that they haven’t just scarpered?”

  “They have but it’s temporary.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “When Johnson escaped, Karpov knew that someone would come here sooner or later. Could have been the police, could have been us or it could have been Johnson himself coming back for his brother. They’re smart. They will have had a place lined up in case they had to move in a hurry. There was always an exit plan; we just need to find out what it was.”

  The sound of engines grew louder. Tyres squealed and doors opened and slammed closed. Hushed voices chattered and a dozen heavies ambled in as they spoke. “Search the place, lads. Pull it to pieces. We’re looking for anything with an address on it, invoices, receipts, lists of suppliers or the like,” Tommy ordered. “It’s a big building so you start in the reception, the rest of you start at the back and work your way forward.”

  As his men got to work, Tucker walked around the trailer again, desperate for some answers. He had been double-crossed by the people he had trusted for years. They had supplied him since the early days, since the very beginning. His contacts in Amsterdam had always been true to their word. He had never had cause to doubt them, not once. Every deal that they had made from the early days onwards had been honoured and run like clockwork, never a quibble or question. The price was always right and the quality of the product was superb. They had made a lot of money together and the only reason he could think of as to why they had screwed him was that someone had come along with more money or more muscle, or both. Money and fear could turn best friends into a liability. The fact that they had set him up to fall from a great height gutted him. They knew that this was the biggest shipment that he had handled and if it went wrong, he would be finished. Maybe that was why they turned on him. Maybe his greed was his weakness. Maybe he had stuck his neck out too far and they saw how vulnerable his position was. Or maybe they were just backstabbing arse bandits. The more he analysed things the angrier he became. He should have broken the shipment down into smaller loads, eggs in one basket theory. Words bounced around his head, perhaps, maybe, what if, could have, should have, hindsight is a great tool. It was easy to be smart after the event but this was a mistake that he wouldn’t recover from. Anger boiled inside him, anger and embarrassment together, a powerful combination. It wouldn’t take long for word to leak out across the city that he had been ripped off. Not just normal ripped off but set up proper, shafted, made a fool of, bent over and done up the arse, ripped off. He would be the laughing stock of the city and all the credibility that he had earned over the years would be gone, wiped away in the blink of an eye. Eddie Farrell had sat down with the Karpovs and planned how they were going to fuck him over, actually had conversations about how to ruin him. They had meticulously organised his demise. He imagined them scheming, plotting his destruction in detail and it made him sick with anger. Whatever happened next would be the end for someone, him or them. There was no way that they could coexist anymore. Most outfits in the city simply tolerated the others knowing that war was bad for business but after this, Nicolai Karpov and Eddie Farrell would die at his hands or he would die at theirs. This was the end of the world as he knew it, one way or the other.

  Tucker thought about the shipment and what could have been. He would have made ten million at least, probably closer to fifteen, enough to retire and walk away. One big score and then life on a beach drinking ice cold beer. Instead, he was looking at financial ruin and worse. His financiers would hear about the deal being scuppered and they would come for their money as soon as they did. The shipment was a big one. Now that it had been removed from the container it would be unlikely that the Karpovs would keep it intact. It would be broken up into smaller more manageable amounts. It would be impossible for him to recover the entire shipment. The more he thought about it the more desperate he felt. For the first time that he could remember he felt unfairly treated and helpless to do anything about it. He saw the irony that he was a hardened criminal who felt hard done to because other hardened criminals had targeted him. It was ironic yet he felt bitterly disappointed that they had stolen his drugs. It was a ‘why me’ moment and he hated himself for feeling so weak. He was Joseph Tucker. Nobody fucked with Tucker. Nobody. Did the Karpovs and Farrell really think that they could rip him off with no come back? Obviously they did. How could they disrespect him so much? They either overestimated their power or underestimated his, whichever it was they had made a huge mistake.

  Tucker spat on the floor and looked around. He noticed the mezzanine floor above. He climbed the stairs up to the office, noticing the shattered window as he did so. He envisioned Liam Johnson jumping through it, landing on the container, running for his life. The office door was closed and locked. He twisted the handle and rattled the door but it didn’t give. Turning his back to the door, he donkey kicked it twice. The second time, it splintered and flew open. A feeling of dread touched him as he stood looking into the unlit office. Something bad lurked in the shifting shadows. He could sense it. Then he smelled it too. Tucker reached inside and flicked on the light. Above the desk, the dead body of Ray Johnson was hanging from a metal stanchion, his face purple, the ears and lips blue; his tongue lolling from the corner of his open mouth. An electrical cord had cut deep into his neck, the wire barely visible, hidden by jagged flesh. A wet patch had spread from the groin downwards and the smell of urine, excrement and early decomposition drifted to him. The bulging eyes stared at him accusing him, blaming him, daring him to claim that it wasn’t his fault. He watched fascinated for a few seconds before a red flashing light behind the desk caught his eye. It was attached to a box fitted to the wall. Realisation hit him in an instant. “Tommy!” he shouted as he bolted down the stairs. “Get the fuck out of here!”

  “What is it?” Tommy came running from the rear bay.

  “We’ve triggered a silent alarm or something,” Tucker bolted down the stairs, clearing the last three in one leap. He slipped on the stone floor and fell heavily onto his shoulder. Picking himself up, he sprinted across the service bays and stopped panting at the reception door. “Get everyone out. The cops will be on the way!” Tommy ran by, followed by three of their men. He grabbed at the reception door and pulled the handle. It wouldn’t move. He couldn’t fathom what had happened. They had forced the door to gain entry but it wouldn’t move. He tried again but it wouldn’t budge then it occurred to him what had happened.

  “Someone has pulled the roller shutter down!” Tommy lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. “We’ve been locked in from the outside.”

  “Someone must have been watching us break in.”

  “Yes, watching us and then locking us in so the cops find us here,” Tommy moaned. He kicked the desk. “They are taking the piss out of us.”

  “What?” Tucker said running to the door. He put his head against the glass and looked out. The metal shutter had been pulled down and fastened from the outside. He shook the door in frustration. They had had him over again. Tucker was fuming. “Open the door you bastards!” he kicked at the wood and bruised his foot. “There must be another way out if here, find it!”

  Tommy told the men what had happened and they ran back into the service bays to look for another exit. Tommy turned to speak when Tucker got the first whiff of gas. He looked at Tommy’s cigarette glowing as the air around them ignited and they were engulfed in a clo
ud of flames.

  28

  When he reached HMP Altcourse Bryn Evans was tired and sore. The meds were wearing off, the pain becoming unbearable. His face was bruised and puffy, his vision impaired by the swelling, leaving him feeling fragile and vulnerable. Just walking around was agony. The slightest bump or knock sent shockwaves of pain through his broken face. The G4s guard who threatened him stayed in the van while he was unloaded, watching, glaring. Bryn wondered if he was that scared he might make a complaint about him, but he didn’t want to make enemies as soon as he arrived. There was no way Bryn could prove what he had said. He knew that the G4s guards were involved in the transportation of prisoners and their involvement ended at the gate. It all seemed surreal and he began to question whether he had said anything at all. His brain was such a muddle that it all blurred into one long nightmare.

  He was surprised to find that he was processed very quickly and bundled into a cell. When he asked where he was, they told him that he was in something that the guards called the First Night Unit. The guards were rude and abrupt but Bryn was in too much pain to protest. When he asked about the Reynoldstown Unit for vulnerable inmates, he was told that his induction would take three to five days and that ‘they’ would decide whether he was a vulnerable prisoner or not. When he tried to explain his situation for the third time and that his brief had assured him that he would be placed into the protective unit, he was slapped across the back of the head which sent shockwaves of pain through his face and skull. It was enough to convince him to remain silent. All the promises that had been made at the hospital carried no weight in prison. The prison had its own rules and regulations and when it came down to processing new inmates it respected no authority from beyond its walls. Bitterly disappointed but not overly surprised, Bryn resigned himself to the fact that he was caught up in the tide of judicial process and there was no way to swim against it. It was too powerful and relentless to resist. He would just have to bite his lip and see where it took him. No one could help him on the inside. He was given a grey tracksuit, a blanket and a cell. His cell was dark but warm and surprisingly comfortable and he slept for most of the night, although his sleep was haunted by the weirdest dreams.

  The next morning he was woken up at seven by a bang on the door and the sound of keys rattling in the lock. A guard opened it and poked his head around the door.

  “Bryn Evans, I presume?” he asked chirpily.

  “Yes,” Bryn said in a whisper, scared and in pain. He pulled the blanket up to his chin.

  “The assessment team need to interview you before you go for breakfast but they’re tied up at the moment. Someone will be here to see you shortly, okay.”

  “Okay.”

  “My word,” he frowned. “Your face is a right mess. Are you in pain, son?”

  “Yes.”

  “I can’t give you any drugs; not even a paracetamol but I’ll let the unit doctor know that you’re in pain. He’ll need to asses you before anything else can be arranged. He can prescribe you some pain meds.”

  “Okay, thanks.”

  “I might not be able to give you any drugs but I can send you a cup of tea if you want one while you wait?” he said smiling, concern in his eyes.

  “Yes please.”

  “Right you are,” the guard smiled again. “I’ll ask someone to bring you a brew. I’ll see you around no doubt.”

  “No doubt,” Bryn agreed. He didn’t see how they couldn’t. Guards or prisoners, he presumed that they spent their lives confined behind the same fence. “Thanks.”

  He tried to sit up but the pain in his head intensified so much that he lowered it back down quickly. The room spun for a second so he closed his eyes and waited for the dizziness to pass. As his balance returned he sat up and leaned forward, using his hands to keep him upright. He turned towards the door as he heard it opening again. Another guard looked in. He shook his head and whistled.

  “You look like you’ve been in the wars,” he said. “The assessment team are on their way. Sit tight for now.”

  “Thanks,” Bryn said feeling like an exhibit in a freak show. The guard turned and almost bumped into an inmate who was standing behind him.

  “What happened to him, sir?” the youngster asked, gawping at Bryn.

  “He asked a stupid question,” the guard said with a smile. “Go and get your breakfast and mind your own business.” The inmate took one last look at Bryn and then moved on. Bryn could hear multiple sets of footsteps passing the door. Blurred faces went by, black, white, yellow and brown. Some looked older than their years, some looked much younger. “Come on, move along,” the guard waved the youngsters on. “Someone will be along to see you soon,” the guard said pulling the door towards him. A young inmate turned into the doorway, almost crashing into him.

  “Sorry, sir,” he apologised to the guard. “I was asked to bring a cup of tea for someone.”

  “Carry on,” the guard said walking off down the corridor.

  “Are you waiting for a cup of tea?” the teenage boy asked. He had red hair and freckles and stood in the doorway with a plastic cup in his hand. Bryn didn’t answer, he just nodded weakly. “Only, Mr Peters asked me to bring you one, you see. He must think that I look like a tea boy, eh?”

  “He must do.” Bryn said weakly.

  “I’m Gaz but everyone calls me Ginge.”

  “I’m Bryn.”

  “Hi, Bryn,” the kid nodded and smiled, “here’s your tea.”

  “Thanks,” Bryn stood up on unsteady legs. He walked towards the boy, guessing that he was about his own age. Behind him he could see others passing the door, glancing in curiously, laughing at his injuries. Their voices echoed from the walls; the acoustics like an indoor swimming pool.

  “Blimey, someone made a mess of you didn’t they?”

  “Yes.”

  “What does the other bloke look like,” he joked. Bryn didn’t answer. “Looking at your face I bet he’s proper fucked up his hands eh?”

  “Probably,” Bryn muttered.

  “Does it hurt?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did it happen in here?” the kid asked gesturing to the door with his thumb, “Because there are loads of fights in here. It goes off in here every day.”

  “No it didn’t happen here,” Bryn didn’t want to explain what had happened. He didn’t see how he could without saying that he had killed his attacker with a brick.

  “Not a big one for gossiping are you?” he smiled. “Never mind. Do you take sugar?” the boy frowned, taking the hint that Bryn wasn’t in the mood to explain. “Only he didn’t say either way so I went for one spoonful. Most people have one don’t they?”

  “I don’t usually take sugar but it doesn’t matter I’ll have it as it is, thank you,” Bryn tried to smile but his face was too swollen. His left eye was virtually closed, the right a slit between swollen purple lids. “My mouth is so dry.”

  “Sorry about the sugar,” the kid held the cup out for him. Bryn reached for it. His fingers brushed the plastic when the kid pulled it back and threw the scalding hot liquid in his face. Bryn staggered backwards, blinded and shocked by the pain. He held his arms out trying to fend off any further attack but he couldn’t see anything. “You’re fucking dead,” the kid hissed as he punched Bryn on the nose. Bryn was knocked down onto his backside with a thump; his head struck the bed frame hard, blinding white pain flashed through his brain. The blow to the back of his skull stunned him. He tried to stand, blood pouring from his nose and he felt vomit rising in his gullet. Another teenager stopped in the doorway his mouth open in surprise.

  “Hey, leave him alone.”

  Ginge turned towards him. “What the fuck has it got to do with you?” The attack stopped for a moment as he kicked the door closed. As it slammed shut, the metallic clunk sounded final, echoing from the thick walls. The kid pulled his foot back and aimed a kick at Bryn’s upturned face.

  29

  Tucker felt his long hair sizzling as the
flames engulfed them. He could hear it crackling as it withered and burned. He covered his face with his arms trying to protect his exposed flesh from the fire as the flames swirled around him, blinding him, stealing his oxygen. Doubled over, he staggered blindly in a circle, desperate to escape the inferno but with no chance of doing so. There was simply nowhere to go. He could hear men screaming, calling for help, calling for their mothers, calling for the pain to stop. Tommy’s voice was amongst them, close enough to recognise but too far to find him. His knees buckled and the air in his lungs burned to be released. He knew that if he exhaled he would have to inhale burning gas, frazzling the delicate tissue in his lungs. He couldn’t escape the flames and he knew that death was seconds away, a death that he had inflicted on others, the slow painful agony of burning alive. His skin had started to blister and burn when a deafening crash rocked the building.

  30

  Bryn felt the kick land. It was like a sledgehammer hitting the side of his jaw. His top and bottom teeth impacted so violently that the molars and premolars cracked filling his mouth with enamel and blood. The exposed nerve endings felt like electricity was passing through the roots into his jawbone. He cried out and spat blood and teeth at his attacker, covering his head with his forearms. Another kick thumped into his arms, knocking them painfully against his bruised face. He tried to turn away from the attack but he was wedged between the bed and the wall. Ginge used the wall to support him as he threw kick after kick. Bryn deflected some with his arms but some hit home. His strength was sapped by the pain. He had to stand up or he knew that he would die. His instincts and training kicked in as he struggled up, chin down behind the shoulder so that he couldn’t be knocked unconscious, hands high protecting his head and face. He twisted his head at an angle so that he could see the kid coming through the slit in his eye. A wild punch was deflected from his forearm. Another skimmed the top of his head. Bryn ducked beneath a third shot, bent his knees and turned his hip; as he came back up he blindly threw a left hook, catching the kid clean on the chin. The kid’s mouth was open, magnifying the impact of the blow. His eyes rolled back into his head as his knees buckled; his brain switched off and he crumpled to floor. Bryn stepped back, his hands still raised when the cell door was flung open and three guards rushed in. They stopped dead in their tracks as they surveyed the scene. The skinny ginger kid was unconscious on the cell floor and their new inmate, a murderer, was standing over him poised to strike again.