by M W Foolster
"Right lads, that's enough o' the niceties. Now me and yur old man go way back, have known Ron since he wis yur age. When yah speak tae him next, tell him DI Jordan sends his regards. Sorry laddie, forgot tae ask yur name."
The DI noting that the brother is anything but timid, more of an arrogant confidence about him. Toby, on the other hand, is the total opposite and will break easily.
"Ryan."
"Sae Ryan, I am intrigued, whit the hell possessed yah tae have all the piercings in your lips?"
"Just like my look, ain’t it."
"Yur look? Whit the feick daes that mean? A purple Mohican haircut and a face full of metal. Is it a look that appeals tae yah, John?"
"No Gov, it looks bloody awful."
"Aye, would have tae agree. Tell me, Ryan, daes it hurt having that done tae yurself?"
Ryan shifts uneasily on his feet under the hard gaze of the DI. "Not much."
"But it could be dangerous though. For instance, should yah accidently catch one o' those rings in something, like my finger for instance, it would rip chunks oot o' yur face. Daes that nae worry yah?"
DI Jordan enjoying the effect he's having on Ryan, can see the fear in his eyes. Both brothers exchange a wary look between them as they step backwards.
"Did I say youse could move, lads? Come on, get closer, let’s make this an intimate wee chat, shall we?"
Placing a cigarette pack on the bar, the DI pulls one free and lights it up. Ryan gulping loudly, and pointing towards a no smoking sign.
"You… Errr, can't like smoke in here."
"Really? Best report it tae the police then laddie. But then again, that would be us, right John?"
He bursts into a croaky laugh, smacking the bar with the palm of his hand.
"Nae, yah are right. Look, sorry Ryan, am bang oot of order and I dinae want yah thinking I am abusing yur hospitality. Yah got something behind the bar I can stub it oot in?"
Glancing around the pub, the DI drops something before slipping his hand into DS Fuller's pocket, and removes an object. Sucks deeply on the cigarette, grinning ominously at its bright red glow. And ignoring the saucer being passed to him, turns and ferociously stubs the cigarette out on the back of Ryan's hand. That sends him leaping backwards in shock, rubbing wildly at his hand and looking totally stunned,
"Are you fucking mad?"
"Now, now, nae need for that kind o’ language, Ryan. Yah could hurt my feelings talking tae me like that. Right, John?"
"Too right, Gov."
"After all, laddie, not as though it's real."
Confused and shaken, Ryan stares at the electronic cigarette being dangled in front of his face. The DI winks at him. A niggled DS Fuller snatching back the electronic cigarette from the DI.
"Bloody hell, Gov, do you know how expensive that was?"
"Sorry, John. Now lads, where were we?" With a smug look plastered across his face, the DI continues to drum his fingers on the bar. "Aye, that's right, me and yur old man. As I wis saying earlier, I have known him for years lads, have many a fond memory o' our times together. Nae sae sure he would think the same, wis usually nicking him," snorting with laughter. "But seriously, he must be very proud o’ the pair o’ youse. Nae previous, sae youse both managed tae stay clean. Or maybe yah have jist been lucky? Right lads"
Neither of them show even a flicker of emotion, but undeterred, the DI continues.
"But yah see lads, I've built my reputation on following my gut instinct, never fails me, and right now, it's screaming oot at me. And dae yah know whit it's telling me?"
Both shake their heads.
"Well lads, it's telling me that something about this pub stinks and I dinae jist mean the urinals. Not jist a shitty wee boozer, is it? Nae, this dump holds its own murky wee secrets. Am I getting warm?"
Much to his annoyance, neither Ryan nor Toby show any reaction.
"Now, I've got this nagging feeling up here." Poking his finger at his head a little harder than he intended, just hopes they didn't notice him flinch as he accidently pokes himself in the eye. "That there have been a few naughty goings on in this pub. And I'm sure the last thing yur old man would want is a family reunion behind bars. Just imagine whit dear auld Ron is going tae say when he finds oot youse two wee buggers have been meddling in drugs."
Ryan returns the DI's hard stare. "Be as shocked as we are because it's a load of bollocks,"
"Sae, when the drugs squad arrive tomorrow morning wi' a couple of sniffer dugs, they'll leave disappointed then?"
Ryan unflinching, dismisses the threat with a nonchalant shrug. Toby looking relieved. DI Jordan feels his blood pressure steadily rising, a trickle of sweat running down his forehead. Their body language alone confirming that his bluff has failed. He decides that a change of tactics is required, hand going to his jacket pocket.
"Yah expecting somebody, Toby?"
"What do you mean?"
"I've noticed yah keep looking at the door. Sae are yah waiting for somebody?"
"Yer, my uncle, he should be back soon. He manages the pub, we just like work here, you know."
"I do now, Toby. Would yah be a good lad and gie me some pork scratchings?"
He passes a £5 note across the bar. Toby goes to take it, and after a quick glance around the now empty public bar, DI Jordan grabs hold of his hand pulling it towards him. DS Fuller lunges at the ears of the startled youth, slamming his head down hard on the bar, his hand placed across Toby's mouth. A flash of something wooden in the DI's meaty paw as a small hammer crashes down into Toby's now splayed hand. The youth struggles frantically to free himself. DI Jordan snarls through gritted teeth,
"Had enough o' the bullshit Ryan. Now I can sit here for the next hour battering yur brother’s hand and believe me, by the time I'm finished laddie, he will nae ever use it again. Or yah can do the sensible thing and hand it over."
A shocked Ryan looking down at the tear streaked face of his brother. "Hand what over?"
DI Jordan's eyes bulging menacingly, he raises his hand, about to slam the hammer down again.
Ryan pleading with him. "Wait! Please. I will give you whatever you want." The panic clearly detectable in his voice, as is the fear in his eyes upon witnessing his brother’s torment.
"Look, if you want the money you can have it. But please just let him go right. I'm begging you, don't hurt him."
Struggling to keep his voice low, despite the rage boiling inside of him, the DI hoists the hammer.
"Money? I dinae want the feicking pub money yah stupid wee shit. I bloody well know that ya're holding on tae something valuable for yur old man. And I know that it will be collected tonight. Yah have got thirty seconds tae hand it over, or swear I will smash every one o' his sodding fingers."
"I will get it. Just don't hurt him."
Ryan disappears through a glass door behind the bar, emerges a few seconds later with a large package wrapped in brown paper. The detectives release the sobbing Toby, who falls to the floor clutching at his damaged hand. Brown paper torn from the package and dropped to the floor, a flabbergasted DI Jordan turns to the DS.
"What the feick is this supposed tae be?"
They both gape at the huge and incredibly ornate belt.
"Oi Ryan, this supposed tae be some sort o’ a feicking joke?"
Ryan shaking his head, "It’s my dad's most treasured possession. Look." Points towards the framed photo displayed proudly behind the bar. "That's the only photo of dad with my granddad, after he'd become World Welterweight Champion. The sentimental value of that belt can't even be put into words, you know. But the pub isn't doing so good, might even go under and we can't let that happen. Dad and my uncle Mike ploughed all their inheritance into this place, every penny they had. It broke Dad's heart but, well, a collector has offered good money for the belt and not like there is much choice."
DI Jordan studies the photo carefully, recognises a very young Ron Rollins, along with another lad, hugging a boxer who is proudly displaying a
championship belt to the camera. Thumps the bar so hard with his fist they all jump. Glaring at a now very sheepish DS Fuller, the DI bellows into his ear.
"Unfeickingbelievable. Yah dragged me all the way across Borrington on my night aff, for this. THIS!" DI Jordan slams the belt down on the bar. The brothers watch as it slides towards them, and clatters to the floor.
"If yah are bullshitting me, Ryan."
"Why would I? Stay if you like, the collector will be here soon, can see for yourself."
Having slid unceremoniously from the bar stool, the DI starts wagging a fat and grubby finger in Ryan's face,
"I was never here, yah got it? And if either o' youse wee fucks say otherwise, I swear a bruised hand will be the least o' youse feicking problems."
A cold eyed Ryan nodding slowly, but there is something about his body language that is niggling away at the DI. He studies the youth carefully, hesitates momentarily before turning on his heels, yelling over his shoulder,
"DS Fuller, I would suggest moving yur sorry arse before I start using it for football practice. NOW."
Leaning back against a red brick wall, DI Jordan gazes up into the clear night sky and pulls a pack of cigarettes from his jacket. Offers a cigarette to the now drooped shouldered and thoroughly miserable DS.
"I don't know what to say, Gov."
"Way it goes, some yah win and some yah lose. Guess he had the last laugh."
"Sorry?"
DI Jordan points up at the Jolly Roger pub sign. The grinning pirate, with cutlass in hand, almost seems to be mocking them; his black hat glistening under the settling frost. The DI pulls the broken wooden hammer from his pocket and tosses it across the road. Inhales deeply on the cigarette, thinking as to where he can get a replacement for his nephew’s toy construction set. Not that the little sod deserves it, is forever filling his pockets up with toys. Still, he’s a good kid really. A coughing fit leads to him dropping the cigarette and stamping on it.
"Let's get the hell oot o' here, John."
"You got it, Gov."
"Stop!"
DS Fuller slams on the brakes.
"Did yah see him?"
The DS studies the scraggy mutt peeing up a lamppost, a vapour of steam now rising up into the air. Shakes its fur vigorously as it looks across at the car, yellow eyes glowing in the headlamps.
"Yer, a scraggy mongrel. Could be a stray. Or do you mean? Blimey, Gov. Do you think something is stashed something under its collar?”
"Whit the hell are yah talking aboot? Nae the bloody dug, yah numpty, the man who jist walked past us."
The DS looks in his wing mirror, catches a fleeting glimpse of a male entering the pub. DI Jordan rubs his chunky hands together.
"Now that my lad is why I am a DI."
"Sorry, Gov, you've lost me."
"A collector my arse. That wis Gabriel Brown. Am telling yah John, those wee shits were taking the piss oot o' us. Knew I wis missing something. Should have pushed them a damn site harder."
Smacks the dashboard.
"Jist love it when I am proved right. Always got tae trust yur gut instincts, remember that, John. And I am telling yah, the fun has only jist started. Whatever our laddo is collecting is going tae be a damned site more valuable than some sodding old belt. We need tae have another chat wi' the runts."
"What? Do you really want to go back into that poxy pub? And who the hell is Gabriel Brown?"
2 The Collection
"Man, that hurts."
Toby leans on the bar, inspecting his now bandaged hand. Winces in pain as he attempts to wiggle his fingers.
"Could be worse Tobes. Not like anything is broken."
Ryan gulping down a whisky, passes a glass to Toby.
"How'd you know Ryan? That it was him I mean?"
Ryan winks. "Dad never tell you it was the Walrus that nicked him? It’s what the evil bastard is known as down at the nick.” He sniggers to himself. “Even the other coppers hate him. Dad said he might come sniffing around some day, you know when he gave us the gear to hide. The Walrus has been doing the rounds and intimidating all of Butner's old crew, so kinda stood to reason that he would pay us a visit someday. Anyway, that’s why Dad had the belt ready to hand over.” Sipping slowly on his whisky, hatred in his eyes. “First saw the ugly git in court, and he ain’t like somebody you'd forget, so recognised him straight off. Used to be in Ray Butner's pocket, did you know that? But with Butner serving life, well, rumour has it that Phil Dyson is pulling his strings now."
Toby still wiggling his fingers. "Thought the git was going to have a heart attack. You know, after Jay and Tony shouted out about the flippers and throwing him some fish." Starts chuckling. "Makes you think mind. I mean, how the hell do they know him? Can't imagine them two ever having had a run in with the Walrus. Unless they got done for being drunk and disorderly. And am telling you, Jay is like totally wrecked tonight. Can you believe he pissed himself?"
Ryan grinning as he opens the ancient cash register, counting the notes before shoving several £20 notes in his jean pocket.
"Yer, well, be interesting to see what uncle Mike has to say about that, won't it? Thinks the sun shines outta Jay’s arse. As for the crack about fish, well that might be my fault Tobes. Think I said something about a Walrus under my breath when I saw him, so guess they must of heard. Was a right struggle not to laugh mind, his face, swear looked like his sweaty bald head was gonna explode. And yer a right shame he didn't bloody keel over with a heart attack. I mean, he has gotta be the most hated copper in Borrington for like ever, ain’t he?"
"You're not wrong, brov."
"Anyways, we pulled it off, don't reck we'll see him again. And made ourselves an extra forty quid tonight."
"Wet change?"
Ryan smirking as he thinks back to earlier. Wait until they've had a few drinks, soak your hand under the tap, make sure the change is really wet as you hand it across. Human nature to want to get the damp coins out of their hand as fast as possible, rarely count it, just shove it straight into their pockets and wipe their hand dry. Short change them by a few pounds each time. Easy money.
"Yer, never fails, does it Tobes?"
Ryan pats his now grinning brother on the back. He finishes off his whisky before wandering out into the empty pub. Spots a pound coin on the pool table, that goes straight into his pocket. Wanders through into the saloon bar where the regulars congregate, and disappears from view just as the pub door is slung open. Toby watching apprehensively as the black guy approaches the bar, stern expression, muscles bulging through his white t-shirt, eyes locked on him.
"Help you?"
"The name's Gabriel. Expecting me, right?"
Toby manages to force a smile. Gabriel perches himself on a stool, leans forward on to the bar, unintentionally flexing his biceps, staring intensely at Toby. Feeling somewhat intimidated, Toby's tempted to yell for his brother, but instead, he takes a deep breath and attempts to compose himself.
"Yer, Gabriel Brown, right?. Get you a drink? Be on the house."
Gabriel frowns and checks his watch. “Sure man, why not. Make it a rum and black. So you got a name?"
Pulling a mobile from his jeans, and with a stern expression on his face, Gabriel places the phone on the bar before staring across at the male in front of him.
"Toby Rollins."
Gabriel relaxes, stretches out a hand,
"So you're Ron's son."
Toby nodding, shows him the bandage as reason not to shake hands, but acknowledges the gesture with a timid grin.
"Is ok, your Dad, like the guy. You know what I am here for, yer?"
Placing the drink in front of him and having promised to be back with the package shortly, Toby walks to the other end of the bar. He's niggled to find Jason, the quiz team manager, waiting to be served.
"Don't you think you've had enough for one night Jay?"
"What are you, my mother? Just want a whisky to warm me up, that too much to ask for?"
Glass slammed down in front of him, Jason flashing him a huge smile of gratitude.
"Have you seen my brother, Jay?"
Runs his hand through his beard, "Now, let me think. Yer saw the fang head earlier, draining some poor girl dry outside." And bursts into hysterical laughter, showering Toby with whisky.
"For fuck sake, what's with you? Have..."
Toby stops abruptly as Ryan comes storming in through the saloon bar entrance, colliding heavily with a mumbling drunk, who's sent flying back towards the chair he'd just vacated. A worried expression on his face as he beckons Toby to one side.
"It's gone."
"What you talking about?"
Thumping the wall with his fist, eyes bulging, he points towards the carefully erected, if somewhat tacky Halloween display. A grass mat borrowed from the greengrocers covering the half a dozen stacked wooden pallets. A few old mannequins, rescued from the attic, made up to look creatures of the night and dotted amongst the plastic headstones they'd found in a local charity shop. Orange lanterns hung from the ceiling above, a few candelabras with fake candles at the sides and plastic pumpkins everywhere, all covered in sprayed fake cobwebs.
"The package, Toby, it's bloody well gone. Saw the Walrus come in and like hid it in the ghost, in the display you know. And now it's gone."
Both storm across to the raised display. There’s a noticeable gap between a mock zombie drooling blood and a heavily cobwebbed rocking chair.
"For fuck sake Ryan. How? Somebody see you hiding it?"
"I just… I dunno, Tobes. Must of. I don't believe this. Shit... No other explanation is there? But to take the bloody ghost an all. Look somebody in here must have seen them."
Ryan looks around the saloon bar in his desperation. Tears forming in his eyes, and panic threatening to overwhelm him. "Shit, Tobes, this just can't be happening." His eyes darting between the few remaining pub customers. A couple of men slouched over tatty wooden tables, both regulars, as is the idiot quiz team manager propping up the bar opposite. The drunk sent sprawling earlier gingerly making his way back towards the exit, still mumbling to himself as he struggles to pull on a black woolly hat.
