I rang up a journalist who had covered the launch of Café Assassin. I told her what had happened and how the police had reacted. I arranged to meet her at the club. She turned up with a photographer. We talked for over an hour, then the photographer took some pictures. I may have exaggerated a little. I may have given the impression that the man with the hat had been sent by a rival business or protection racket.
The feature was published a few weeks later. It was a double spread with lots of photographs. More papers and some magazines showed an interest. The police continued to monitor the situation, but there was no sign of the man with the hat. Nothing. Eventually, they said that they were satisfied that he had given up his campaign of intimidation and moved on to someone else. The police stopped coming.
Three or four months after re-opening, I was raking it in. One magazine did a feature on how I was at the centre of the redevelopment of the south-east side of the city. They ran it as a plucky-club-owner-puts-up-a-fight story. I framed one of the stories and hung it next to Baudelaire. I was a bit of a local celebrity and people flocked to see a real life hero. It was far from the truth, but I was no longer a failure. I was a success, just like you. I’m trying not to laugh, Andrew.
You are surrounded by killers. By serial killers and psychopaths. You don’t have any friends, but your cell mate is ok. He is called Ahmed. You haven’t had chance to get to know him. But you hope he will become a friend. You have been told to make yourself scarce. Something bad is going to happen to Ahmed. You have to warn Ahmed. You tell him to go to the screws and ask for help. Ask them to take him off the wing straight away. Ahmed doesn’t take your advice and the next thing there are five men in your cell. Ahmed is ready for them. He has a can of beans in a sock. He puts up a fight. He is stabbed in the leg. He injures the men. Ahmed is taken away to Health Care. He has to have stitches. Ahmed is patched up but he is not moved to another wing.
You don’t understand why he isn’t moved. Surely that is standard procedure? But you don’t understand much about prison yet. A few days later you hear a scream. It fills the corridors. You see a smackhead leave your cell with a flask in his hand. Ahmed comes crawling out. The junkie has thrown boiling oil in Ahmed’s face. The oil is so hot that it melts the flask’s plastic lid casing. Ahmed’s face is changing colour. His skin is dripping from it. There is nothing you can do. You run down the corridor. You find a screw doing his crossword.
You never see Ahmed again. Word gets out that you informed. Now they are coming for you. You are approached by one of Ahmed’s attackers. He tells you that you are going to get it. Why has he told you this? Why has he given you warning? You don’t want to leave your cell, but you have to leave your cell. You are not safe in your cell. You are not safe out of your cell. There is no place of safety. You can’t trust any prisoner. You can’t trust any officer.
You are attacked by three men. One of them punches you in the face and you go down. They are kicking you. You curl up in a ball. They are booting you. They are stamping on you. They drag you across the room. They get you on your feet. Two of them have hold of you. They pin back your arms. You can’t move. The other has a toothbrush with two razors melted into it. He approaches you. He is about to slash the flesh on your face into ribbons. There is someone else in the room. The men are backing off. They let go of you. There is only one other man in the cell now. He has a funny name. His name is Keyop.
I need to tell you something. Something which happened, that was terrible, that nearly destroyed me. It was a few weeks after re-opening the club. I was out with Ray, just past the old recreational ground, that bit of scrubland where Ray caught his first rabbit, that reminded me of the slacks in Manchester, where I’d drunk my cherry wine on the evening of my eighteenth birthday (funny how everything is connected to you, Andrew). I was heading back when I came across another dog walker. He had a staffy cross, black and white. A very playful dog. He said hello, and we got chatting.
I’ve got a mate with a Parsons Terrier, he said.
I nodded. It was an isolated statement.
Nice temperament, he added.
Your dog’s nice, I said, just for something to say. How long have you had it for?
About two years, he said.
What’s it called?
He shrugged. Dunno, he said.
This struck me as very odd but there was also something familiar about him. I tried to recollect where I’d seen him. I noticed that he had a rucksack on his back.
Best get off, I said.
It was a Friday night, and I had to open the club.
Well, nice talking to you, he said. But in a way that made me think that it hadn’t been nice talking to me.
I’d walked about fifty yards or so. I don’t know what it was, call it a sixth sense if you like, but something made me turn round. There he was, standing on the brow of a hillock, the sun setting behind him. He’d put on his hat, it was a military-style hat. Then I saw him take something out of the rucksack which was now beside him. I don’t know why I didn’t run immediately, it was as though my shoes were welded to the ground, like they were that night in 1989.
As he lifted it up, I could see the outline. It was unmistakable. It was a crossbow. It was only then that I ran. I ran as fast as I could, with Ray running beside me. I heard the ‘ffsstt’ of air as the bolt whizzed through the sky hurtling towards us. Then a dull thud. I stopped and turned around. There he was, my dog, my greatest companion. He was on the floor. He wasn’t moving. There was a bolt through his head. His mouth was open and his tongue was lolling. His eyes stared at nothing. Dead.
I went to run after the man, but he’d disappeared. I lay down next to Ray and I wept. I clung on to his limp body. Hot tears rolled down my cheeks and onto his warm fur. I lay there until the sun had fallen out of the sky. I took Ray in my arms and carried him back to Richard’s place. I buried him close to the rabbit catch the next day. I was beside myself with grief. It wasn’t just Ray that had died, trust had died with him.
I had five days off work. I was a real mess. I didn’t eat, I didn’t drink, I didn’t sleep. I couldn’t smoke a cigarette. I couldn’t watch the television. I couldn’t even go running. Nothing gave me solace, everything amplified my loss. I spent most of my time in bed staring at the cracks in the ceiling.
On the fourth day, I decided I would get revenge on this man, whose name I didn’t even know, nor his motive. It was an idle threat: I didn’t have the first idea about how I would track him down. I thought of nothing else, of how I would go back to that place and find him with his dog. How I would capture him and take him into the back room of the club. How I would torture him slowly over days and weeks, keeping him alive, just. Then finally, when he was beyond the point of caring, I would end it for him.
I went to the place every day. I would sit there for hours but he never came. After a few weeks the pain of Ray’s death eased and life went on. I was resigned to the fact I would never see the man again.
Then one day, I got a phone call from Pawel.
Nick.
What is it?
I see him.
I knew immediately who he meant, but asked anyway, Who?
The man with hat, the man who kill your dog.
Where?
Lidl.
When?
Just now. I am here now. They have offer on champagne again, only £10.99. We can sell for £25, is three pound cheaper than cash and carry, I don’t know how they do it.
Never mind that, where is he now?
In next aisle.
Keep him there, I’ll be right over.
How?
I don’t know, just think of something. Say you’re doing a survey.
He will know me from club?
Oh, shit, yeah. Listen. Just keep an eye on him. I mean it, Pawel. Don’t let him out of your sight.
Pawel had the van, and Steve
was miles away. Richard was in the club, fiddling with the PA, double checking everything for the gig tonight. I went over to him.
Richard, I need you to do me a favour.
Oh, hi Nick, what is it?
Pawel’s found the man who killed Ray.
The man with the crossbow, and the hat?
That’s him.
I need you to drive me to Lidl.
Lidl?
That’s where the man is, the man who killed Ray, he’s in Lidl. Leave that for now, come on.
They do some good offers.
Never mind that.
We set off in Richard’s clapped out Peugeot. It was only ten minutes away. I rang Steve as Richard drove.
Steve, I need you, it’s urgent.
I explained the situation.
That weird hat cunt with the crossbow? I’ll bring my tools.
Always up for extreme violence, Steve was happy to meet me back at the club. I urged Richard to drive faster. He put his foot down. He seemed excited, thrilled even.
I’ve been waiting for this, he said.
I wasn’t really sure what he meant. To catch Ray’s killer?
For this moment. For something to happen. You know, an actual high tension event.
He started telling me about the kids who were hanging around our street. How he was convinced they were breaking into houses. How he was convinced one of them had stolen his bicycle. How he was thinking of creeping up on them at night with a bike chain. How he had planned an ambush. He was going to hide in an overgrown rhododendron and wait for the ringleader. How he was going to whip him across the face with the chain. All of this from Richard, the human dormouse. Soft, gentle, whispering Richard Digby Ebbs. To say I was shocked was an understatement.
So you’re ok with this then? I said.
Nick, this is the best day of my life, he said.
We pulled up in Lidl car park and we got out.
Leave this to me, I said. Stay behind me as back-up.
He nodded. We walked into the store. We went past the fresh fruit and veg aisle and turned into the canned goods. There was no sign of him. We moved to the next aisle, past the biscuits and tea and coffee. Nothing. Then I saw Pawel.
Where is he?
He ushered me to another part of the store and pointed. I crept up to where there was a gap between some tinned goods. And there was the man who had murdered Ray, in his daft military-style hat. He was pushing a trolley and walking towards us. We ducked behind a display of boxed sweets. I watched him leave the store. Pawel and Richard were beside me.
Come on, I said.
We followed him into the car park but, before we had time to grab him, he was in his car and away. We ran to Richard’s car, though it would have made more sense to use the van. Still, there was no time to think it through. We all piled in and Richard drove off in pursuit of the man in the hat.
He was already a good hundred and fifty yards in front and Richard had to put his foot down to close the gap. We were almost behind him, just one car between us, when the lights in front turned red. The man in the hat had gone through on amber but the car in front of us had come to a stop. I could see the man in the hat’s car in the distance, speeding up the hill. I rang Steve.
Are you there yet?
Two minutes away.
Change of plan.
I told him where we were. Kirkstall is a long road. I described the car we were pursuing. Steve was going to come from the other end, and block him off. I wasn’t sure how this would work, but Steve was very insistent. We travelled along Kirkstall, driving away from town. The man in the hat signalled right shortly after. We did the same and Richard moved into the right-hand lane. We followed the man up Greenhow Road until we came to the T junction. The man indicated left. I rang Steve.
We’re on Burley Road now.
How far?
We’re just opposite the park.
I’ll turn up Woodside.
We stopped at another traffic light. There was still one car between us. We carried on past Haddon Road. As the man indicated left to turn down Argie Avenue, I could see Steve coming up it the other way. He spotted the man immediately, and without slowing down, drove his car into the driver’s side of the man’s car.
There was a loud thud. The man’s car shunted sideways onto the pavement and crunched up against a stone wall. The front of Steve’s car concertina-ed. Steam was pouring from the radiator. Steve jumped out and ran over to the man’s car. The man was trying to open his door, but it was wedged in. Steve yanked it hard, until it gave way. He booted the man in the face then dragged him out. The man’s hat fell off and rolled into the gutter. Steve dragged him over to where we had parked. Pawel, who was in the back, opened the far door. Steve dragged him across.
I’ve got a delivery for you, he said. Did anyone order a dog-murdering cunt?
When we got back to the club, Steve took the man into the office. I locked and bolted the doors behind me. When I got to the room, Pawel and Richard were already there. Steve had the man on the floor and he was stamping on his head.
Hang on. Hang on.
I managed to persuade Steve to stop.
Before you give him permanent brain damage, I need to ask him a few questions.
Fair enough, Steve said. It’s thirsty work this head stamping. Anyone fancy a beer?
He fetched us all Coronas from the fridge. Richard and Pawel helped me get the man onto the sofa. Blood was pouring from his mouth and both eyes were peeping out from the bruised skin.
Who are you? I asked.
He didn’t say anything, just stared at the table in front of him.
What do you want with me? I tried again.
Nothing.
Steve must have thought he was helping when he picked up the steel bar from behind the sofa and smashed the man in the face with it. I could hear the man’s bones crack, and saw blood burst out of his nose, spattering the white wall behind him. The man was sprawled across the sofa.
I’ve got a bike chain in my car, Richard said. Do you want me to get it?
The man was shaking. Then I noticed a wet patch between his legs.
He’s pissing himself. Steve said. Fucking cunt is pissing all over the furniture.
The man started to cry. A congealed rope of blood and snot was swinging from his nose. His eyes were red and wet with tears. He started to make a strange animal whimper.
Listen, just stop for a minute.
I let the man come round and then asked him who he was again. There was a long pause. The man tried to speak. He put his hand to his mouth and took out two loose teeth, blood was still pouring from his mouth. He put the teeth on the table next to the ashtray.
Why did you kill my dog?
At last he managed to say something, I’m Patrick’s brother, I’m Tom.
Who’s Patrick?
Patrick O’Brien.
I saw the yellow spear half in and half out of Paddy’s chest. Paddy wheezing, blood pouring. Paddy falling, splayed on the floor. Blood. Red. Paddy’s eyes, pleading. Gasping. Fists clenching. His last breath. The light going out.
I sat Tom up and got him a beer. He had killed my dog and I had killed his brother. I explained to him how it happened. How unwell I’d been after Keyop’s suicide.
Steve looked in horror. You were fucking a bloke?!
I ignored Steve, and carried on with my story, describing how mentally disturbed I was, and what Patrick had said that upset me so much. It all made sense, what Tom had been doing. Lost and found: he had lost Paddy and found me. The bar of soap. Even the noise that Madman Marz had made that night. The story I’d told Paddy. Even though I promised Keyop I hadn’t told anyone else. It was a stupid lie. It hadn’t mattered to me but I could see now what it had symbolised for Keyop. The one person he thought he could trust, had lied
to him. He had no one else. I told Tom that killing Paddy had been a moment of madness. And I asked him for forgiveness.
He started to cry again and mutter incomprehensibly. I could see now that he had mental health problems. There are no monsters, Andrew, just pathetic mentally ill people. I tidied him up as much as I could. I helped him outside and ordered him a taxi to the hospital. Steve, Richard and Pawel went.
I sat on my own in the back room drinking my beer. I was shaking. I felt like a thread was being pulled and I was unravelling. I didn’t know what to do. I needed to talk to someone with a bit more sensitivity than the three stooges I’d just dismissed.
I pulled out my phone and rang Liv. I told her what had happened. I didn’t think she would come, I really didn’t, but twenty minutes later there was a knock at the door. I got up, unbolted the locks and let her in. She put her arms around me and I collapsed onto her chest.
Are you all right?
He killed my dog, Liv.
I told her some of what happened. I didn’t tell her about the teeth. Instead, I told her that I’d tried to stop Steve, but that he was out of control.
Why didn’t you tell me about all this?
I didn’t think you wanted anything to do with me. You made that clear.
I told her that I’d tried to reason with the man, but that he wouldn’t talk. Then I broke down.
When Keyop died I couldn’t grieve. I’d never openly admitted to our relationship. People knew, sure, but I carried this grief around me like it was a solid black weight in the middle of my heart.
I couldn’t get it out … I killed an innocent man, Liv. Patrick O’Brien. He had told a malicious lie but he hadn’t deserved what he got. In my head he was mocking me. He was mocking Keyop. In my mind he had caused Keyop’s death.
Maybe he did. You don’t know.
Keyop caused Keyop’s death. I know that now. I stabbed Paddy in the heart, Liv. I watched him bleed to death. I saw him take his final breath. Gasping on the floor, holding the spear, his eyes looking at me, pleading. I did that. I’m a murderer.
I was shaking all over. I couldn’t look her in the eye. We walked into the main bar. She poured two whiskeys. She put her arms around me again and I clung on to her. She smelled sweet and warm and safe. I stroked her hair.
CAFÉ ASSASSIN Page 21
