Body Blow

by Peter Cocks

  “Señor Kelly,” he said. “We must discuss business.”

  FIFTY-FIVE

  Donnie began to feel jittery as he drove out of town.

  It had taken him a while to get used to the idea, but in the end he had realized he had no choice in the matter. There was always the chance that he was walking into a trap, but that was a risk he would have to take. There were tripwires and pitfalls at every stage of this game. This time it was shit or bust. It hadn’t shaped up so well down here in the long run, and if everything went OK, this might be his route out of the place.

  He knew he’d blown his chances with Valerie, who had rung him this afternoon, screaming something about Juana and how it was all his fault. It was time to move on.

  Donnie swung the BMW out onto the dual carriageway and drove towards the setting orange sun. He put on his sunglasses and considered the palm trees that lined the road. He wasn’t given to artistic thoughts, but in this early evening light he thought everything looked beautiful. Like a painting; the pretty top layer giving no indication of the sketchy business lurking beneath the surface.

  Donnie had to take the risk that one more dirty deal might be his way out. Preferably on a Boeing 747, preferably alive.

  He lit a cigarette to calm his nerves and took the slip road to Benalmádena Pueblo. He could see the spotlight towers of the football ground and the bullring next to it. He parked in the car park and unhooked the crucifix and rosary beads that hung from the rear-view mirror, stuffing it into his pocket.

  Donnie heard the roar of the crowd and the notes of a trumpet carried on the breeze. The fights had started; it was a good time to slip in. Donnie looked around. Entrance F, he’d said on the phone. He took a deep breath, stamped out his cigarette and went in.

  The bull was huge.

  They had got progressively bigger throughout the evening, but this one, brought out to face Paco Barrera, the main attraction, was a monster.

  The gate flew open and I gasped, along with the crowd, as at least five hundred kilos of black-furred muscle pounded out into the arena.

  Its head was almost prehistoric, with widely spaced, curved horns. The chest and front flanks were deep and defined with muscle, tapering away to a narrower waist and hindquarters, giving a suggestion of vast power combined with speed and manoeuvrability.

  In spite of myself, I began to feel some of the sheer thrill that goes with these occasions, reaching out to something primitive in my make-up. I felt my pulse quicken as the bull thundered around the ring, men with pink and yellow capes diverting its attention this way and that.

  Patsy had hardly noticed any of the life-and-death struggles being played out in front of us. He was deep in conversation with Señor Ybarra and the mayor. I strained to hear what they were saying, with little success, but I could see Patsy beginning to get heated, gesturing with his hands, his face reddening.

  If Paco Barrera was losing his cool, he didn’t show it. On the posters he was advertised as “El Gallo” – The Cockerel – for the arrogant way he strutted around the ring in his traditional pink socks, paying little attention to the beast that was beginning to fix him in its sights from the other side of the arena.

  He waved and held his arms open to the crowd, showing off his glittering golden suit to the ladies, soaking up their adoration and applause.

  Then Paco Barrera addressed the bull.

  He stuck out his chest and stamped his foot, shuffling closer to the big black animal. Barrera looked very small as he approached, dwarfed by the bull’s bulk.

  The bull pawed the ground with its hoof, and Barrera dragged the pink and yellow cape across the sand in front of him. The bull dropped its head and with astonishing acceleration hurled itself at the matador. Barrera kept his cool and allowed the bull to thunder up to him, twirling the cape and neatly sidestepping as the deadly horns missed him by a whisper.

  The crowd cheered. This was what they had come to see.

  “No,” I heard Patsy say, his voice raised. “No way. I’ve paid you lot for years. I’m not sharing it out with no one.” He looked around for support. “Where’s Terry?”

  I could see that the two Spanish dignitaries were getting quite angry too, their attention drifting away from the fight. I spotted Gadd down below in the crowd, walking back towards us, easily seen in his loud shirt.

  As Barrera conducted two more passes, the bull coming closer each time, two banderilleros ran across the sand, jumped in the air and stabbed four barbs into the bull.

  Far from wearing it down, the pain enraged the animal and it bucked and reared, trying to shake off the steel spikes. Barrera twisted and turned, making the bull run in circles and figure of eights.

  “Where is this Serbian anyway?” I heard Patsy shout, not appearing to care who heard him any more. “Bring him here, show him to me. This is my turf. If he’s the nuts, why isn’t he here?”

  Ybarra and the mayor exchanged a few words in rapid Spanish.

  “We had a message,” the mayor said. “Señor Radic is not coming. He said he doesn’t want to deal with small-time crooks.”

  Barrera brought the massive bull to a standstill in the centre of the ring, where it regained its breath, panting, outwitted by this cocky man. Worn down but with nothing to lose, the bull was as dangerous as it had ever been.

  Patsy Kelly had heard enough from his Spanish hosts. “Send a message back,” he said. “Tell him to fuck himself.” He stood up, his face pale with anger, ready to walk away.

  And then I heard the gunshot, or if I didn’t actually hear it, I felt the impact as flecks of Patsy Kelly’s blood and brains sprayed across my face and shirt.

  The women behind us jumped up and screamed, and people around us exclaimed in horror.

  The commotion caught Paco Barrera’s attention in the ring. It was only a momentary distraction, but it was a dangerous lapse of concentration. This time, as the bull rushed, it threw its head up at the last second, catching Barrera under the jaw with a razor-sharp horn. The crowd cried out as the bull lifted him off the ground, its horn piercing his neck and reappearing through his mouth. The bull tossed its head and Barrera was flung high into the air. He dropped, head first, onto the sand, where the bull rushed and trampled and stamped on him, then buried its horns into his ribs, tossing him around as if he was a rag doll. Men with capes distracted the bull while paramedics ran into the arena to pick up El Gallo’s limp body.

  It was chaos.

  The crowd became hysterical as fear and emotion spread like a virus. Near us, women were crying and screaming while their men, grey-faced, shouted for help. The two Kelly bodyguards drew pistols, waving them about after the event that they had clearly not prevented. I looked down at Patsy Kelly’s body on the ground. His eyes were half open and looking up at the darkening sky, while a pool of thick blood spread behind his head and soaked into the linen of his suit.

  The Guardia Civil bustled around the mayor and his brother-in-law, offering protection.

  Terry Gadd finally made his way to us through the crowd, seemingly unaware of what had happened. He saw Patsy’s body on the ground, then looked at me, face hard and eyes cold.

  “Oh dear,” he said. “Didn’t do a very good job of looking after him, did you, big balls?”

  FIFTY-SIX

  I ran.

  I ducked between shell-shocked onlookers and jumped across families glued to their seats, protecting their children from the mayhem in the stand and the tragedy in the bullring. I saw a Kelly bodyguard lumber behind me, but I was light on my toes.

  Without Patsy’s protection, I was dead in the water. I hadn’t had a chance to make head or tail of what Gadd was accusing me of, but it was clear he held me responsible in some way for the drugs bust, for Patsy … for anything he didn’t like the look of.

  There were no tidy solutions here, it was just a real mess – sticky, bloody and unpredictable – and I knew the time had come for me to ship out. I weaved through the crowd, keeping my head down, apologizing
on the way. When I reached the ground, I ducked into the lavabos to give myself a few seconds’ breather.

  I quickly washed blood spatters from my face in the toilets, so as not to draw extra attention to myself, then slipped out of the bullring. The place had gone mental, with Spaniards shouting and blocking every walkway. But it seemed that neither Gadd, nor any of the bodyguards who had so spectacularly failed in their duty, had managed to follow me.

  I hopped on a bus into town and got straight on the phone to Anna. The few people on the bus stared at the splashes of blood on my shirt. I was past caring. I sat at the back, out of earshot.

  “He’s been shot,” I said. “PK’s dead.”

  “Who was it?”

  “Don’t know. Everything seemed to be pointing at this Serbian gang, but I didn’t see anyone.”

  “Where are you now?” she asked.

  “On my way back into town. I need to find Juana and get out of here. Terry Gadd will be instantly on my case. He’s on to me. I’m sure of it.”

  She went quiet.

  “Can you get me a flight?” I asked. “I need to go to the flat and get some protection.” I felt like I was going to be collared at any moment.

  “I’ll have to clear it with Baylis first,” she said cautiously. I began to panic.

  “I need to get out now. I’ve done my bit and I don’t have time to hang around.”

  “All right,” she said. “We’ll pull you out. I’ll text you some flight details.”

  “What about Juana?” I asked.

  “What about her?” Anna’s voice was clipped.

  “Please, Anna,” I said. “You promised. I’ll find her. It’s too risky here. Patsy’s dead, Jubarry’s is wrecked, and all hell will break loose when Gadd comes looking. I couldn’t have done any of this without her.”

  Anna sighed. “Listen, she’ll be OK. We made sure someone was there to spirit her away. She’ll be fine.”

  “No, she won’t. She has to come with me. She’s known here – if I disappear they’ll track her down. It will compromise me as well as her. Please, Anna.”

  “OK. Two flights, nothing more,” she said flatly. “Hasta la vista.”

  She rang off, and I jumped off the bus down towards the port and picked up a cab up to the apartment. I would need to put a few things in a bag: some clothes and a gun, which I could ditch at the airport once I was out of harm’s way.

  It was dark when I arrived back, and some instinct made me hesitate as I got to the door. I put my ear to it. I couldn’t hear anything, but I could sense another human presence nearby. I thought for a moment. As far as I knew, only Barry had known where I lived.

  I rang the buzzer. Nothing. I slid the key in the door and went in. It was dark; I pressed myself back against the wall and felt my way along to the living room, pushing the door open with my foot. I kept tight into the entrance before switching on the light.

  There was no one there.

  I crept through to the bedroom and found nobody there either. I needed to get the gun, money and stuff from under the bath, so I felt my way into the bathroom and pulled the string to the little shaving light above the mirror. I saw in the mirror that the shower curtain was pulled across behind me.

  Not right.

  I swung round, ready to pull it back when an arm stuck out, pointing a pistol at my head. The other Baikal I had hidden under the bath. The hand was shaking. It was attached to a thin, brown wrist. I reached out and pulled back the curtain.

  “Don’t shoot!” I shouted.

  It was Juana.

  It took her a second to register that it was me, and then she lowered the gun. She climbed out of the bath and hugged me. She was shaking. Despite my panic, a wave of relief washed over me. I realized how worried about her I’d been, but I’d pushed it to the back of my mind, not wanting to think the worst. I couldn’t believe I had her in my arms again. I covered her face with kisses.

  “I thought you were dead,” she sobbed.

  “So did I for a minute.” I laughed shakily, beginning to sob myself. “It was a close call. Where have you been?”

  “A guy grabbed me from the bar late last night,” she said. “One of yours. English. He said it was too dangerous and brought me here. I’ve been waiting ever since.”

  I was grateful that Baylis’s lot had finally listened and kept her safe for me. I hugged her tight and felt her body give against mine. Felt her crying subside and become calmer.

  “Kelly’s dead,” I said. “Shot in the head. It’s going to get really ugly – I can’t stay here. I’m going back to London.”

  I felt Juana flinch in my arms.

  “And you’re coming with me,” I said. “It’s too dangerous for you, too. Pack a bag. We’re going as soon as I can get a flight.”

  I was completely exhausted. My nerves were jangling and I needed sleep. But of course I couldn’t sleep. Every minute I stayed in the flat increased the risk of my being tracked down. I lay on the bed next to Juana, my arm around her shoulders and her head on my chest. I checked my phone again and again for incoming messages. My other hand gripped a pistol at my side. My mind was racing, imagining a knock at the door at any moment.

  We couldn’t get away quick enough.

  Donnie sat in the VIP bar of El Elefante in a backstreet off 24-Hour Square. It was still in full swing at 4 a.m. and Donnie was wide awake: a combination of adrenalin and several lines of the very pure cocaine that had just come on to the market.

  He’d dropped into a few places, picking up gossip and rumour from bouncers, bodyguards and club owners. News of Patsy’s killing had spread in minutes, making everyone an instant expert in gangland politics.

  “He was losing his touch…”

  “Terry Gadd was shagging his wife…”

  “It was a Colombian…”

  “This Serbian warlord…”

  “The SAS.”

  The rumours grew louder and wilder as the night went on, followed by reports of new gang-on-gang violence. There had been two stabbings and a shooting in 24-Hour Square alone. If you took one key player out of the game, another would be ready to step in. The turf wars would go on, whoever was in charge.

  Donnie took in all the theories and kept his own counsel. He’d come unstuck before by opening his gob.

  His day had gone as well as could be expected. Now he might be able to take a bit of a holiday. He looked at his watch. It was creeping towards 4.30 a.m.

  Just a few things to tidy up and he’d be offski. Donnie swallowed the last of his beer and headed out into the dawn.

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  My phone buzzed with an incoming text at 6 a.m.

  I was glad. I must have drifted off eventually, but my dreams had been full of images of Patsy Kelly’s blown-apart head: bull’s horns emerging and blood gushing from his mouth, eyes, nose, ears. Images of his broken body being tossed around and trampled by a monstrous bull.

  There had been no interruptions during the last few hours of the night but my hand was still sweatily gripping the gun.

  Juana rolled over and yawned. “Que hora?”

  “Seis,” I said. I read the text.

  Flight EasyJet 8602, Malaga-Gatwick dep. today, Mon. 10.05, arr 11.55. Tickets x 2 one way.

  £60. Bargain.

  “We’ve got flights,” I told her. “Leaving at ten. We’ll need to go around eight.” I had a strange feeling, a mixture of exhilaration and apprehension. Excited to be getting out; apprehensive because I knew I couldn’t relax until I touched down at Gatwick. I let out a sigh. Once we were away from here, it would all be fine.

  “I’ll make coffee,” Juana said.

  I packed up any remaining surveillance kit and left it behind the bath. Whoever set this place up in the first place would probably clean up after. I stashed the Baikal in my holdall.

  We drank strong coffee and dunked stale croissants. The coffee helped bring me round and I suddenly felt more optimistic. Juana sensed my change of mood and put her arm aro
und my shoulders, kissing my neck.

  “I’ve never been to England,” she said. “I’m excited.”

  Although I felt a little excited myself, I couldn’t quite overcome my paranoia about being hunted down at any moment. I tried to stay cool for her sake.

  “You’ll love it,” I said with a smile.

  I wanted to talk to her about everything we were going to do, about the places I was going to take her. But in truth I didn’t know what I was going back to, how things would pan out after this job. I didn’t have a picture of the future.

  I didn’t even know if I would be able to tell Juana more about myself. I would want to be ditching Pedro Garcia as soon as possible. She might not even like the real me, I considered.

  At eight-fifteen, we grabbed our bags and locked the empty apartment, then made our way down to the street. I unhooked the keys to the apartment and threw the car keys to Juana while I posted the door keys through the letter box. Juana walked towards the Alfa.

  “I’ve got lots to tell you,” I said. “Stuff you don’t know about me.”

  “Mystery man.” She smiled. “And I have a lot to tell you.”

  “You first.”

  She laughed flirtatiously. “I’ll save it for the plane. Come on. We’ll be late.”

  The morning was already getting hot and I fancied my last drive in the Alfa with the roof down.

  “Put the roof down, guapa,” I said. “I’ll bring the bags.”

  I picked up the bags and walked towards the car. I watched as Juana unlocked the door and got into the driver’s seat to lower the automatic roof.

  And then I saw a figure dart into an alley at the end of the street and I had a terrible thought.

  Gadd knew the car, even if he didn’t know where I lived. With a couple of bent coppers on board, a red Alfa convertible wouldn’t have been that hard to find.

  “No!” I shouted, still ten metres away. “Wait. NO!”