by Nick Oldham
The second man stopped in his tracks. More fatal hesitation.
Crazy racked the shotgun.
Miller shot the man in the chest. The 9mm slug drove into his right lung. Miller had shot people before and was always amazed by the different effect taking a bullet had on folk: some toppled over like skittles; one man he shot in Northern Ireland, a suspected IRA terrorist, just walked to a nearby seat, sat on it and started to cry while nursing his wound. This man, today, did not even stagger back. He looked down at his chest, looked up accusingly at Miller and opened his arms in a gesture which seemed to ask, ‘Why me?’ His gun dropped to the floor and he sank to his knees, both hands now covering the hole in his upper chest from which pumped blood.
Without a word, Miller and Crazy headed for the exit. They walked purposefully, not too quickly, not in any sort of panic. They shouldered their way past people, did not touch anything, stared ahead of themselves, making no eye contact with anyone. Once outside, their walk turned into a brisk sprint to the Mercedes.
By the time they were out of the car park, the first public-spirited member of the public ran out and tried to take their registration number, but she was too late. They were gone.
Their lovemaking was long and slow. Afterwards they held each other tight. Henry could not stop kissing her, nor she him.
‘You’re pretty good at bonking,’ he told her.
She grinned. ‘Only with the right person.’ She kissed him and sucked his bottom lip and sank her teeth into it. He gasped and squeezed her bottom hard. ‘And you feel like the right person.’
‘Mmm,’ he agreed, was about to kiss her again when the inevitable happened: her mobile rang. ‘Hate those things,’ he said. She clambered across him, ensuring her breasts brushed across his chest, then lay at an angle over him and answered the phone. Henry did not take much heed of the conversation. He was too engrossed in running his fingertips up and down her spine, caressing her buttocks and rubbing her shoulders. She ended the call then lay unmoving, revelling in Henry’s touch.
At length she said, ‘That was the office. There’s been some sort of shooting incident at McDonald’s, Yeadon Way . . . Ahhh,’ she breathed as Henry slid his hand between her legs and into her cunt. ‘They want me to turn out to it . . . I said I’d be there asap.’ She dragged herself up, straddled him, kissed him and reached for his cock, slowly easing herself down the shaft. ‘I’m not sure what asap means, though,’ she confessed.
Dix took a chance. He phoned Debbie again on the new mobile, this time calling her mobile number. She answered and he could tell from her voice that she was now more in control than she had been earlier.
‘Are you alone?’
‘Yes . . . look, Harry, what’s going on?’
‘Don’t talk – listen,’ he said firmly.
For the moment Marty was being patient. Under the present circumstances there was no point in being otherwise. It was the only way. He had to stay focused and cool. No need to panic. Just play things nice ’n’ easy. Wait for the moment and pounce. Dix was sure to show himself and the best way to get him, Marty believed, was through the sweet Debbie.
Marty was parked two streets away from her house, waiting for her to make a move. She had to drive past the end of the street he was on in order to get to the main road, so he was certain he would not miss her when she set off to meet her beau.
It was just a matter of time.
He was fiddling with the in-car CD when she whizzed past him. He gave her a few seconds, then followed. Marty concentrated hard on keeping on Debbie’s tail, ensuring he was always a few cars back, trying not to spook her. Unfortunately for him, he was so wrapped up in this that he forgot the first rule of survival in the world of the professional criminal: ‘Always look over your shoulder.’
Eight
Although Dix had warned Debbie to be on guard, to check if she was being followed, she really did not know what she should do, or what she should be looking for. There were cars behind her, but how could she tell if any one of them was after her? She had no idea about antisurveillance techniques. It never entered her head to loop round roundabouts or to stop in lay-bys or to retrace her steps. All she could think of doing was to look in her rear-view mirror.
In truth she knew little about what Dix did for a living. She had an idea that he operated on the fringes of criminality, but his reassurances that he was only a debt collector – or taxman, the term used in his circles – always calmed her down. They calmed her down because she loved him, couldn’t get enough of him and truly believed that when they got married, as surely they would, she could change him and his ways.
She checked the mirror. Two cars behind her at the moment. Had one of them been there before? She could not be sure.
Suddenly and painfully she had started to learn something more about Dix and his world. She knew about Marty Cragg. Dix had taken her to a nightclub in Blackpool once where he had bumped into Marty and a few hangers-on. After a few drinks had loosened his tongue, Dix had told her that Marty was a drug dealer and a pimp and that he enjoyed knocking women round. Marty had frightened her. His eyes, fuelled with alcohol admittedly, looked wild. It worried her when Dix told her he worked for Marty and his brother, Ray, who was far meaner than Marty. How could that be? she wondered naively.
That had been a while ago. Dix had never mentioned Marty since and she had stopped thinking about him. Now she could not erase him from her mind.
What the hell had Dix done?
He had refused to tell her anything over the phone. He just made her listen to some instructions which, when the phone call ended, she began to follow with a feeling of incredulity.
She had gone into her kitchen as instructed and emptied the cupboard underneath the sink. With shaking hands she lifted the bottom shelf out and peered into the dark space below, reached in cautiously and pulled out a plastic carrier bag. She replaced the shelf and the items from the cupboard before turning her attention to the bag, one from Safeway’s supermarket.
‘Just get it, keep your eyes and fingers out of it,’ Dix had warned her. ‘And bring it to me.’
Red rag to a bull. There was no way she could resist a peek. At first she could see nothing to make her afraid. There was something wrapped in an oily cloth, and a small biscuit tin which used to contain shortcakes. She extracted the biscuit tin and flicked it open with her nails. Her jaw dropped.
It was packed full of wads of Bank of England notes. There was also a Halifax Building Society passbook on top of the money. She opened the book slowly. Her jaw sagged a little further when she saw the balance of twenty-two grand, plus change.
She replaced the book and closed the tin. Next she pulled out the object wrapped in the grubby rag and placed it reverentially on the kitchen floor.
Without unwrapping it, she instinctively knew what it was. A horrible, nasty, dirty feeling overcame her.
She peeled back one corner of the rag, then another, then another until the contents were revealed.
A handgun and some bullets. She knew nothing about weapons. Did not know it was a 2 inch barrelled Smith & Wesson Model 10 revolver, .38 calibre. All she knew was that her boyfriend, whom she loved and trusted, was keeping a gun and some very suspicious amounts of cash on her premises without her knowing about it.
She slowly re-wrapped the gun and placed it back in the carrier, terrified it would go bang at any moment, then breathed out.
She knew she should have called the police there and then, but for some unaccountable reason a frisson of excitement buzzed through her belly. Shortly after she was on her way to see Dix.
Another check in the rear-view mirror: still two cars behind.
Debbie drove towards the M55, joining the motorway at junction 3 and travelling east towards Preston. She cruised along at sixty, making it quite hard for Marty because not many people drive at such slow speed and it felt odd to hang in there behind her, but he did not have much choice.
He tailed her on to the M6. She came off at juncti
on 29 and drove towards Bamber Bridge on the A6. He was behind her when she turned right towards Sainsbury’s, then immediately left on to the Premier Lodge car park. He drove past and pulled into Sainsbury’s, a smirk on his face. So that’s where you’re holed up, he thought.
Dix was in room 34. Debbie walked straight past reception, up the stairs and along the corridor to the room. She knocked quietly. The door opened after a delay and Dix drew her in, checking the corridor before closing the door.
She dropped the carrier bag on the wide double bed. ‘Dix . . . what the hell is happening?’
Before she could finish her remonstration, he grabbed her and kissed her hard on the mouth. There was a modicum of resistance for a few fleeting moments before Debbie’s legs turned to jelly. Her hands went to the back of his neck and she inserted her tongue into his mouth. They kissed and held each other for a long time. Then she pushed him away, brushed back her hair and decided to get down to business.
‘I want to know what the hell⎯’ she blurted again. He stopped her mid-stride by placing a fingertip over her mouth.
‘Were you followed?’
She shrugged uncertainly. ‘I don’t know . . . I don’t think so.’
‘Mm,’ he said sceptically. ‘You got all my stuff?’ He nodded at the carrier bag on the bed.
‘And I looked.’ She folded her arms.
‘Thought you would,’ Dix said lightly.
‘How dare you keep a gun in my house?’ she said indignantly.
‘Shush.’ He smiled. ‘Have a look at this.’
He beckoned her to follow him across the room and picked up the holdall from underneath the dressing table. Slowly he unzipped it and revealed the contents. ‘Voilà!’
Somehow she managed to keep her face straight.
‘How much?’
‘With what I’ve got in there,’ he pointed to the carrier bag, ‘about three hundred thousand give or take a few gs.’ He re-zipped the bag.
‘Who does it belong to? Marty Cragg?’
‘Sort of,’ he answered vaguely.
‘You absolute nut case,’ she said and sat down on the edge of the bed, shaking her head despairingly.
‘No, no, no – not if we go, get out of here . . . Spain or summat.’
‘We? I can’t just leave,’ she said. ‘I’ve got a house, a job, me mum and dad.’
‘You could come eventually though, couldn’t you?’ His eyes pleaded. ‘I love you like mad.’
She softened. ‘We need to sit and talk this one out, Harry . . . I mean, is there enough to live on for the rest of our lives? Because that’s what this means, you know. The rest of our lives.’
There was a sharp knock on the door. Both froze, staring at each other. A feeling of dread rushed through Dix, from his teeth right down to his toes.
Marty rapped on the door again, feeling very confident that things were going to turn out right for him at last.
‘Come on, Dixie,’ he called softly, ‘I’m not going anywhere and nor are you.’
He could feel Dix’s single eye on him through the peephole. He smiled and raised his right hand so Dix would have a clear view of the gun he was holding in it. The door unlocked and Dix opened it slowly and had the muzzle of the gun pushed against his forehead.
‘Back into the room,’ Marty said.
Dix walked back, a pained and very pissed-off expression on his face. Debbie was sitting on the bed shaking visibly. Marty smiled at her. ‘We meet again, Debs. You sit next to her,’ he told Dix. ‘I fervently hope you’ve got my dosh, Dix my boy.’
‘In the bag . . . and it’s not your money,’ Dix said. ‘It’s Ray’s.’
‘No, you’re wrong there. It’s mine – all mine.’ Marty perched a cheek of his bottom on the edge of the dressing table and pulled the holdall to him. ‘So you didn’t drown then?’
Dix remained silent.
‘Just decided to keep my money instead. Naughty boy. How can you live with yourself being so dishonest?’
‘Same as you, I guess.’
Marty tipped his head back and roared with laughter. ‘Nice one. Always liked your sense of humour. His jocularity faded as quickly as it had arrived. His face became hard and uncompromising. Keeping an eye on Dix and Debbie, the gun pointed loosely in their direction, he unzipped the bag and glanced in. ‘Is it all there?’ He inserted his hand and it came back out with a few packs of money. ‘Or have you bought yourself a Roller yet?’
‘It’s all there,’ Dix confirmed, ‘less some expenses.’
Marty pouted. ‘And what’s in that bag?’ He gestured to the Safeway’s carrier on the bed.
‘It’s mine, nothing to do with you.’
Marty snorted. ‘Bring it to me,’ he told Debbie. She did not shift. ‘Now, please,’ he reiterated and pointed his gun at Dix, ‘or I’ll just blow this fuck away here and now.’
Debbie and Dix exchanged a glance. He gave her a reluctant nod. She picked up the bag and placed it on the dressing table next to the holdall. Marty reached in and prised the lid off the tin. His face glowed with pleasure. ‘Your nest egg, I presume. How much?’
‘About fifteen,’ muttered Dix.
‘And a gun as well, if I’m not mistaken.’ He unwrapped a couple of corners of the rag to confirm his suspicion. His hand emerged from the bag with Dix’s Halifax Building Society passbook in it. He manipulated it open with one hand. When he saw the balance, his eyes opened wide. ‘Twenty-two⎯ Bloody hell, Dix, you’re a rich man. Sadly, you’ve made some very unwise investments and you’ve lost all your money – to me.’ Marty was thinking quickly. This was too good an opportunity to miss. ‘For all the trouble you’ve caused, this is the cost of it.’ He shook the Halifax book.
‘No,’ said Dix.
‘No what? Actually, yes – every penny. All this cash and the balance in the Halifax. That’s the price you pay, Dix, when you get greedy. Think yourself lucky, you could be dead as well. So what we’re going to do is this, we’re going to settle down here for the night, all three of us. Cosy, eh? Then in the morning you’re going to go to the Halifax and cause all that money to be transferred into another account in another bank, the details of which I’ll give you – then I’ll see how I feel. How does that sound?’
Neither spoke.
‘Knew you’d like it.’ He winked. ‘I’ll stay here with the delicious Debbie while you do it and if you don’t come back, I’ll rape her then kill her. Sound okay?’
‘Nothing to say, either of them.’ Jane Roscoe, looking red and flushed even two hours after making love with Henry Christie, was talking to him in a more professional capacity in the A&E department at Blackpool Victoria Hospital. ‘One’s been shot in the chest, the other’s been blasted by a shotgun in the groin. Both are stable, but the one with the chest wound can’t speak yet. It’s the one who nearly had his cock shot off who told me to piss off. But they aren’t going anywhere. From witnesses at the scene, these two went for two other guys sitting down eating a meal.
‘And they came off worse.’
‘Very much so. The other two legged it unharmed. Drove off in a Mercedes sports, an old one, but no registration number taken.’
‘Any connection with the shooting at the King’s Cross?’
‘Dunno. It’s a bit of a coincidence if it isn’t.’
‘Let’s just keep an eye on how it progresses – have you got someone capable of dealing with it properly?’
‘I thought Rik Dean could sort it.’
‘Yeah, he’s pretty thorough,’ said Henry.
By 2 a.m. Debbie had fallen into a difficult sleep, fully clothed on the wide double bed in the motel room. Dix lay beside her, completely awake, his hands clasped behind his head, staring at the ceiling. Marty sat in one of the uncomfortable easy chairs, feet up on the other, watching a soft-porn film on the video channel, sound turned down. His gun was laid across his crotch. His head kept nodding and lolling as he endeavoured to keep awake. Dix monitored him through the corner of his eye, h
oping he would nod off properly and give him the chance to grab the gun and blow his head off.
At least that’s what he’d like to do. Whether he would have the courage to attempt something so foolhardy and dangerous was another matter. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, regretting ever contacting Debbie and dragging her into this situation. Not that he could blame her for his current predicament. She was just a bit naive – and maybe he was too, and now they were both paying the price.
He opened his eyes and looked lovingly at Debbie, curled up next to him. She had been very good for him, had made him think twice about his life and had promised him something more fulfilling. Perversely, that was one of the reasons he had stolen the money. A new start, away from all the shit. It had backfired badly.
Marty struggled to sit upright, yawned and stretched his arms upwards and outwards. The gun slid off his lap on to the floor with a thud. Marty ignored it and rolled his shoulders and rubbed his aching neck, his mouth opening and closing with a clicking noise.
‘Need a brew . . . make one, Dix.’
‘Yeah, right.’
The gun was still on the floor at Marty’s feet.
Dix sat up. He saw it. He could go for it now. It was about 60–40 in Marty’s favour, but he could still go for it. He tensed.
‘Go on, have a go. Try it,’ Marty urged.
‘Try what?’ Dix’s shoulders sagged.
‘Don’t tell me you weren’t thinking about it.’
The gun remained on the carpet.
‘Thinking about what?’ Dix swung his legs off the bed and rubbed his eyes, feigning innocence.
‘You know.’ Marty placed a foot on the gun.
Debbie stirred and rolled over. She started to snore quietly.
‘Is she a good fuck?’
‘I’ll make that brew.’ Dix stood up.
The door blew open with a huge crash and four men, hooded, all dressed in black, all wielding Uzi machine pistols, poured into the room in a well-planned well-thought-out manoeuvre. They came in in single file, past the bathroom, then spread across the room where it widened. They came in screaming – loud, noisy and disorientating.
