‘How does forty grand sound to you?’
‘It sounds pretty fucking good from here,’ he said, grinning, and there was a bit of laughter from his guys at that.
‘Good,’ I nodded, ‘well I reckon you’ve earned it, don’t you?’
‘Sure have.’
‘Well done,’ and I looked around me as if our business was concluded.
‘So, er,’ he wasn’t sure what was going on, ‘where is it, like?’ and he looked at my boys as if one of them was just about to hand over a briefcase full of cash.
‘I already gave it to you,’ I explained, and he looked bemused, ‘just this minute I gave it to you. By that I mean I’m not going to ask you for the missing money. You can keep it. That’s your bonus for nailing everything down so well here.’
‘Missing money? I don’t get it.’ The smile had vanished.
‘It’s really simple,’ I explained very calmly, ‘the take is forty grand light. That’s the difference between the street value of the last few consignments and the amount you handed over to Kinane’s lads.’
‘Are you saying I’m skimming?’ he flared. I could tell our lads were suddenly more alert, like it was all about to kick off. Around us, Braddock’s lads seemed to stiffen, ready to react to the affront, exuding menace like they would on the street. I ignored them.
‘No,’ I said, ‘you’re not that stupid. I’m saying that someone is. Not you, but somebody must be short-changing you or there would be more money in the take.’ He didn’t know how to answer that, ‘now you’ve just told me you’ve got this place nailed down, so when you retrieve the missing money, you can keep it. I can’t say any fairer than that, can I?’
He didn’t say a word. He just looked a little bit sick.
‘Just make sure that whoever is selling you short learns the error of their ways. You need to make an example of them. We can’t let some chiselling, little low-life cunt get away with stealing from us. It would be taking the piss big style and we can’t afford that. Can we?’
Our eyes locked for a long moment. ‘No,’ he agreed eventually.
‘Good. I’ve every faith in you. I know the take will be right next time.’
He mumbled something and looked down as he pulled on the cuffs of his shirt.
‘Sorry?’ I asked.
I was deliberately challenging him now, giving Braddock his opportunity to take me on. There was a moment when I thought he was going to rise to it, then he looked up at me and said, ‘Yeah, got it.’
‘Good,’ I said, ‘then I’ll see you around.’
As I made to leave, I stopped and turned towards the young lass who’d been keeping a low profile in the background. ‘And what’s your name, pet?’ I asked her.
‘Suzy,’ she told me, her voice almost a whisper. I reached out a hand and she just blinked at it. Then, slowly, she put out her own cold, pale hand and I shook it like we were in the line-up at a wedding.
‘Very nice to meet you Suzy.’ I said.
When we were back in the car Kinane said, ‘On the one hand I can’t believe you let him keep the forty grand, but on the other, it was worth every penny to see that stupid grin wiped right off his fucking smug face. That moment will stay with me. Oh yes!’ Kinane was jubilant. At least I had his seal of approval, which meant he might stop bitching about Braddock for five whole minutes and I could turn my mind to more important matters.
Danny chipped in with, ‘it was worth the forty grand to keep the peace and remind him of his responsibilities,’ and I appreciated his supportive comment.
‘I don’t know,’ Palmer cautioned, ‘I get the feeling it’s far from over.’ That brought me crashing back down to earth, because I reckoned he was right.
From the tiny balcony, Braddock watched Blake’s convoy pull away from the Sunnydale estate. ‘Who the fuck does he think he is?’ he asked.
‘He thinks he’s the boss,’ answered one of his crew without thinking and Braddock snapped.
‘Well he isn’t, is he?’ Braddock rounded on Dwayne Fletcher.
‘No,’ Dwayne agreed hastily, ‘not round here. That’s you, isn’t it? You’re the real general on this estate,’ Dwayne assured him, ‘the only boss down here, where it counts, on the streets.’
Braddock knew Dwayne was laying it on thick, kissing his arse because he feared a kicking, but ‘the General’ was a nickname Braddock liked. And Braddock was a general. He was the only one round here with the brains to keep a lid on the Sunnydale estate, a living, breathing, self-contained world cut off from the rest of the city, filled with dealers, users, foot soldiers and civilians and every one of them under his command. Braddock knew things, he read books, unlike the Muppets who worked for him; biographies of real generals, histories of the Third Reich and the Roman Empire and he knew he was destined to be more than just one of David Blake’s minions. Braddock knew Blake slapped him down in front of his men like that to remind him who was in charge, but Braddock didn’t really need Blake. As far as Braddock could make out, David Blake had never earned the right to be Top Boy in Newcastle. He might be able to hold his own in a hotel meeting room but what had he ever done on the streets? Braddock knew how to make moves on the streets and, one day soon, he was going to make a very big move against David Blake.
14
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I was sitting at one of the tables outside Chi-Chi. The weather was nice for once and there were a couple of other people enjoying a rare chance to drink their coffee in the open air. Peter Dean was late, but I wasn’t too bothered. I figured he’d show up eventually and I was glad of a few moments to myself. Palmer had driven me into the city and he’d been sitting next to me reading the paper when the waiter walked up and gave him a message. Apparently Kinane had called the place and needed his help with something. I wondered what description Kinane had given to help the waiter find Palmer. He had once described our former soldier as, ‘a short, squat, muscly bloke who looks like SpongeBob SquarePants.’
‘How do you know what SpongeBob SquarePants looks like?’ I asked him.
‘I’ve got grandkids,’ he told me, ‘my daughter’s bairns. So I’m familiar with Bob’s work.’
I had forgotten Kinane had a daughter. I knew he had three sons; Kevin, Chris and Peter, all born in the 1980s and each named after a Newcastle player; Keegan, Waddle and Beardsley. ‘I almost changed our Chris’ name by deed poll when Waddle signed for Sunderland, fucking Judas,’ he told me.
When the waiter left, Palmer reached into his jacket pocket for his phone. ‘It must be serious if Kinane is admitting he needs help,’ he said.
‘Particularly from you,’ I agreed, ‘why didn’t he just phone you?’
He frowned at his mobile, ‘bloody signal’s always shit down here.’
‘Go on,’ I told him, ‘I’ll be fine. I don’t need a bodyguard to meet Peter Dean, do I? An immunisation of some sort perhaps, but not a bodyguard.’
I watched Palmer leave, and when he’d gone I turned my attention to the people passing by and did a bit of human-watching, wondering who they were and what they did for a living. What did they think when they saw me I wondered; businessman, marketeer, entrepreneur, killer? Take your pick, I thought. I’m a little bit of each. I watched as a bloke ambled towards me. He wore a pair of Morrissey-style glasses and he was carrying a battered, brown leather satchel on his shoulder that looked suitably studenty and weather worn. Doubtless there would be a copy of Jean Paul Sartre or Proust in there to compound the image of the right-on intellectual. He was a walking cliché. I would have paid him a little more attention if I hadn’t been distracted by something behind him.
There were two guys on a motorbike and they just didn’t look right. Not at all. Fucking amateurs, I thought, getting out of my seat without taking my eyes off them. They were wrong on just about every level. Here were two big blokes sharing one motorbike, both dressed in full leathers and black helmets with mirrored visors pulled down, but the gear they were wearing looked brand new, like it
had been bought that morning. It was too hot for leathers and the bike was one of those high-powered bits of kit designed for a fast getaway, but it was dawdling along towards me, like they were trying not to draw attention to themselves. A man with a bike like that usually knows how to handle it and rides accordingly. This guy looked unsteady, like he’d never ridden the thing before. Why was he going so slowly? So the passenger riding pillion could scan the road ahead looking for someone and, like as not, that someone was me.
I didn’t hang around to see if I was right. I left my drink unfinished and walked briskly away. As soon as I left the restaurant I heard the bike rev and I knew they’d seen me and were coming after me. Suddenly the message from the waiter made sense. Someone had dragged my bodyguard away from me and set me up. I didn’t have time to worry about who. I didn’t fuck about and I didn’t care how it looked because I knew what was going down. I broke into a run. Behind me I heard a scream, and the unmistakeable sound of a motorbike careering at full speed. They almost knocked down a pedestrian in their haste, and I wished they had because they would have probably turned and fled. As it was, I was left with the unlikely prospect of outrunning a motorbike with a hit man on the back. Jesus Christ, I’d been stupid. I was too relaxed sitting on that terrace waiting for Peter Dean. I’d let my guard down for a moment and now I was completely in the shit. I sprinted flat out to get to the end of the street so I could lose them.
There are a bunch of little cuts and sidestreets round here, near the old city walls, and I chose one with stone steps that the motorbike couldn’t handle. I took them two at a time, thankful I’d kept myself in good shape. Fear was driving me along and I knew I needed to put enough space between me and the road or they’d just aim up at me and gun me down right there on the steps. I could hear the motorbike’s engine getting louder and I kept running upwards. The sound was piercing for a moment, then abruptly faded away.
Maybe I’d lost them, but it wouldn’t be for long. They’d know I’d gone for higher ground and they’d be after me, moving at a far greater speed and using the main road to loop up to the road above me. I didn’t have the nerve to double back down the steps the way I had come, in case they were waiting for me. When I reached the top of the steps, I pegged it across a cobbled courtyard that doubled as a hotel car park, so I could make a sharp right turn and get back down into the quayside where I’d be surrounded by people. The cobbles were slippery and I almost fell flat on my face but forced myself to keep going.
I’d been stitched up, and I didn’t even know who’d done it. I took another flight of old stone steps back downwards at a rate of knots and managed to reach the steep hill that drops down to form a side street.
I had to get off the street and lose myself and I spotted my best chance straight ahead of me. Halfway up the hill there was a little gap between two old buildings, a restaurant and a pub. I knew that gap and where it led to. If I could dart down it, I could keep on going until I emerged on the other side, into a vacant lot full of builder’s rubble that had been empty for years, covered in old bricks and full of weeds. It was one of those brown-belt developments that no one wanted because it was hidden from view and you wouldn’t get any passing trade. The council had shown it to us when we talked about opening the club, and I told them they were having a laugh, but I was bloody glad I’d seen it now. No motorcycle was capable of following me over that rubble.
I made short work of the cobbles as I pegged it down the hill, and had almost reached the safety of the little sidestreet when I looked up and, abruptly, the bike swerved into view, its rider struggling to keep control of it as it came round to face me. They’d seen me and I now had no choice but to trust in my plan. I ran flat out across the road towards the cut. The bike made a low rasping sound as the rider revved it and shot off down the hill towards me. I had to get across the road, into the cut and out through the other side again before they caught up with me.
I made it across the street, my unsuitable leather shoes almost giving way as I ran. I reached the cut and came round the corner so fast I was halfway down it before I realised something had changed. When the man from the council had walked us down here months earlier there was a twenty yard stretch of unblocked pavement, except for a couple of wheelie-bins and some litter that had blown in there. Beyond that, there’d been an old brick wall just a couple of feet high that was left there to ensure the demolition rubble stayed put. It was so low I would have been over it in one bound. The scene that confronted me now was very different. Straight ahead of me was a high, sturdy, wire fence with a metal gate in the middle of it.
I carried on running towards it because I had no choice. It was too late to turn back to the main street now. I would have run straight into them. The fence was too high to climb and the gaps in the wire looked too small to plant my feet into them for toe holds. Even if I could manage it, I would have been halfway up as the bike turned the corner. To my right and left were the two high, sheer walls of the buildings either side of me. There were no conveniently opened doors to dart into, and the only windows I could see were so high I couldn’t reach them. My only remaining chance was the gate. If it was unlocked I could still get through it and be over the rubble and away. It looked solid, but I couldn’t see a padlock, so I sprinted flat out straight at it, expecting to hear the motorbike behind me at any moment. I got there and pulled hard on the metal handle. It was designed to slide to one side, releasing a long, flat metal bolt so you could push the door open. The bolt gave way and I felt a surge of relief flood through me, but it didn’t last long. It moved but only a couple of inches before it met resistance with a loud clang. It was locked. I was trapped. I was also a dead man. I knew all of this in the time it took for the echo of the clanging metal to die away.
In my panicked state, even though I knew it couldn’t possibly work, I tugged at the bolt. I tugged again and again, praying I could somehow force it to open by sheer bloody will alone, but it wouldn’t give. And that’s when I heard the motorbike behind me.
15
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I span round to face them and watched as the rider drew the bike to a skidding halt at the end of the alley. All I could see of his face was the jet-black glass of his helmet’s visor, but I knew he was staring straight at me. Then the second man leaned round and looked at me too. He patted the rider on the shoulder and the guy tilted the bike to allow him to dismount. For a man who was about to kill me he didn’t look to be in a big hurry, but then he didn’t need to be. He knew I had nowhere to run. I felt sick. All I could do now was wonder if it would be quick and whether there would be a lot of pain. As I watched him climb from the bike, I thought of Sarah and the grief I would cause her because I’d been stupid. I’d fucked things up and I’d cost us everything.
The man who was about to kill me was off the bike now. He had both feet planted firmly on the ground next to it and he was reaching into a leather satchel, the kind that motorcycle couriers use. I watched as he carefully drew out the gun and I took a deep breath. In the absence of any plan, idea or clever solution, I was trying to at least look defiant. It was the only thing I had left. I knew he wouldn’t let me reason with him. I was wondering if I had the guts to run at him, or maybe just stand there and shout ‘fuck you’ as my last words, or would I lose all my dignity at the very end and blub like a little girl.
The man who was about to kill me briefly examined his gun and took a step forwards.
I reckon he had taken about three steps when it happened, another two or three and he would have been in the cut. Right then, I heard the loud revving sound that indicates a car accelerating at top speed. The rider turned towards the sound and tried to climb off the bike, as the man who was about to kill me turned on his heel. I watched him put both hands up in a vain attempt to cushion the blow.
Palmer’s car hit the bike full-on at speed, smashing into it, sending the bike, the man trying to dismount from it, and the man who was about to kill me flying towards t
he far wall of the alley. The two men, the motorcycle and the car all collided with a sickening impact that must have killed both men outright, or at least severely injured them. Their bodies were slammed against the brickwork like they’d been thrown there by a giant hand. Blood fountained up the wall and limbs were bent and twisted under the car’s wheels, but Palmer wasn’t taking any chances. He was out of the car, crouched low with his pistol drawn. He fired twice into the rider’s body to finish him off, then he aimed at the shooter. Amazingly, considering the impact of the crash, he was still moving, but I doubt he could have troubled anyone now. The gun was nowhere to be seen. It had been catapulted from him at the moment of impact. He must have been dimly aware of Palmer’s presence though, because he tried to hold up a hand, but his arm fell limply back down by his side. Palmer shot him twice; once in the chest, then a second time through the visor of his helmet and he finally lay still.
Palmer was calling to me but I couldn’t hear him, so he called again, louder this time. My ears were ringing and I couldn’t make out what he was saying to me. I knew we had to go but I was rooted to the spot. I couldn’t believe what I had just seen or how close I had come to death. If he had been ten seconds later it would have been me lying there instead of them.
Palmer started frantically beckoning me then, and he was clearly shouting ‘Come on! Come on!’ at me. Somewhere, not very far from this spot, a siren was wailing. I realised it was a Police car and it was getting nearer. That snapped me out of it and I set off, making short work of the yards between us. When I reached him, he grabbed me by the arm and hauled me towards the car. He tore open the rear passenger door and threw me onto the back seat, slamming the door behind me, then ran round the car and climbed in. He started the car and slammed it into reverse. There was a horrible sound of twisted metal grinding, but the car wouldn’t budge. It was stuck fast on the wreckage of the motorcycle. Palmer tried once more; there was an acrid burning smell as the clutch started to burn out but the car still didn’t move. I could hear the normally unflappable Palmer swearing at the car now, his voice becoming louder and more desperate.
The Damage (David Blake 2) Page 11
