by M W Foolster
"What kinda business, brov?"
"A mobile phone, mate. Said you might be interested. Got a sim card an’ all. Want to deal, or what?"
"Maybe. How much?"
"On the house mate, courtesy of Ray Butner. He will collect a... Well a favour at later date. Want to deal?"
"And you are sure Frenchy knows about this?"
"Sure, mate, said didn’t I."
Slightly apprehensive, but knowing that there'd most likely be consequences if he turns down the offer, Gabriel continues to stare at the weasel eyed guy. What choice has he got? After all, Frenchy had left him in no doubt that if you've got any sense, you stay on the good side of Ray Butner.
"Guess it’s okay then."
"Watch the door then, will you mate."
Gabriel checks the landing, a few cons floating around but no screws in view. A quick nod at weasel eyes, who then proceeds to bend over the toilet. Gabriel cringes at the repulsive noises coming from behind him, and keeps his eyes firmly fixed on the metal walkway, not that he’s tempted to look over his shoulder, he already knows where the guy has the mobile hidden.
"On the chair mate. Ain’t nothing on it so you need to buy some credit. Right."
And he is gone.
Gabriel looks down at the small mobile, well, it would have to be small and slim all things considered. Wrapped in a plastic bag, charger plugged in but no plug, stripped wires. Needs to hide it and fast, so he shoves it down his sock until he can think of somewhere safer. Leaps on his bunk and stretches out. Pulling a letter free of an envelope, he is still reading it when Frenchy appears through the door ten minutes later.
With a huge smile on his face, he does a quick step followed by a few twirls around the cell. A high pitched laugh as he makes a bow.
"Am telling you, if you have got it, flaunt it. Right babe?"
Gabriel, deep in thought, barely nods.
"Babe. You okay?"
Swinging his legs over the edge of his bunk, Gabriel passes the letter to Frenchy, who sits in the chair and skims through it.
"Phew, Gabe, this must of come as a surprise."
"Yer guess. At least his family don't hold me responsible for his death. Is kinda decent of them to write and tell me that."
"For sure. You still ain’t said how you got off the manslaughter charge, could of been in here with me for years. Not that I'd of minded."
"Yer man, I know. Got lucky is all. Well.. In that I had Yassi in my corner, is all down to her. Yassi and some of the boys heard word on the street that I had been screwed over. Prime witness for the CPS had a right gob on her, woman could not keep her mouth shut. Boasting on how she had screwed me over, good thing for me I guess. Anyways, Yassi got the Caulston Estate guys investigating and she found out the truth. Always so clever is my Yassi."
"Sure sounds it. Real shame she ain’t a solicitor. Swear, I would get her working on my appeal."
"She would an’ all. Reck you would so like her. Anyways, this woman was part of the Knarlswood Crew. And what's more, Dyson Durrell's bitch. They found out he'd been banging her for years. An’ then it all started to make sense. Durrell's crew have been trying to move in on our territory for months now. Guess they thought it was me they needed me outta the way. And must of thought their luck was in when the security guy, well, you know."
"So this Yassi, she intimidated her?"
"Shit, no. She would never do that, not her style. But she spoke to my brief. Asked why he hadn't asked to examine all CCTV coverage from the vicinity. Seriously laid into him you know? His excuse that the police had informed him there's no external coverage at the store. Anyways, Yassi went an’ looked around for herself, and was her that found that the pizza restaurant had external coverage. An’ man, that was my lifeline. The CPS saw the case blow up in their face. Seems the guy hadn't got anywhere near me when he had run outta the shop. Had tripped, an’ smacked into a car. An accident is all."
"So the woman had lied through her back teeth to the police then, right?"
"Yer, an near on got away with it. Anyways, she is now up on a perjury charge. An’ I swear, they best throw the book at her an all."
“So what you going to do about this Dyson? Don't sound the type to let it drop. Will most likely come after you again.."
"I dunno, man. Yer, I mean, you are right but..."
Frenchy gets to his feet and walks towards the toilet.
"What’s with the water all over the floor?"
"Sorry, man, had to clean something."
"As in?"
Gabriel fishes the mobile from his sock, Frenchy grabs it fast and rams it under the blanket.
"Are you crazy, babe? The screws will be doing a head count any minute. Where the hell did you get it?"
Frenchy, now perched on the edge of the bunk, sits in silence on hearing Gabriel's explanation, a worried expression on his face, finally responding.
"Pot-Hole Ron. But Ray said nothing to me. Is the first I have heard of it. The creep works for him so it adds up, but doesn't look good. This is not like the outside world Gabe, and even a cheap mobile comes at a heavy price in this shit hole. A favour in here could mean something real serious. Maybe even taking somebody out. No, this ain’t good at all."
"Fuck, Frenchy, you saying I should of refused it?"
"Dunno, Gabe. Probably not. Will speak with Ray, see what the fuck he is playing at."
Door unlocked, dinner time, down to the canteen. A quick nod of acknowledgment to Dwayne and Josh, and despite lacking much of an appetite, Gabriel wolfs down his dinner anyway. An altercation a few tables away catches his attention. He looks across at the skinhead shrieking at a hunched over bespectacled guy, who'd supposedly sat in the skinhead's seat. Crimson faced, and screaming in rage, the skinhead showers the poor guy's face in spittle, and then he makes a lunge for him. Cheers from the other cons when the bespectacled guy suddenly leaps to his feet, and smashes his fist into the skinhead's face. Screws shouting, and moving through the packed room towards them. Thinking it's probably a good time to escape the canteen, and keeping his head down, Gabriel heads back to his cell. Frenchy storms in shortly afterwards, bruising clearly visible to the side of his face. Refuses to talk, and spends the entire evening under his blanket, Gabriel thinks he can hear the occasional sob.
The following morning isn't much better. Frenchy wincing as he inspects the now clearly visible black eye, and attempting to disguise it with foundation. He's still refusing to answer any questions relating to the cause, not that Gabriel hasn’t figured that out for himself, but Frenchy is at least talking, if only to bark out orders. That they won't be having any lunch today so he'll have to go hungry. That he's to be ready to go meet Ray Butner, and is to remember at all times, just who he is dealing with. Is to make sure that he conceals the mobile in his sock, and with the sim card inserted, Ray wants to inspect it. That he is to play it cool, and never interrupt Ray, and is to be careful what he agrees to, but under no circumstances, is he to raise his voice. They spend the next four hours in complete silence, an obviously concerned Frenchy stretched out on his bunk with his eyes closed, a very agitated Gabriel pacing back and forth across the cell.
11:30. Cell unlocked, Frenchy instructing him to follow. Nobody pays them any attention as they make their way along the landing and up the metal stairwell. Gabriel has a brief glance down through the black mesh, feels his stomach rumbling on seeing the hordes battling their way through to the canteen. Frenchy then telling him to wait as he disappears into a cell. Two brawny guys, faces like bulldogs, stand either side of the cell door eyeing him up and down. The shaven headed thug with a broken nose roughly frisking him, before snarling at him,
"Well, get the fuck in there then you twat."
Frenchy is sat hunched over on a wooden chair, his eyes fixed on the floor, refusing to raise his head let alone acknowledge him. Instead, Gabriel finds himself being scrutinised by a pair of steely grey eyes set in a cruel, square face. Ray Butner, the gangland monster who'd i
mposed his reign of terror over Borrington for decades. The one time bouncer who had risen to lead the most feared gang in Borrington’s history. Notoriously violent, he'd made his fortune through drugs, fraud and prostitution. Was almost considered untouchable, and the few who'd been foolish enough to confront him inevitably ended up suffering truly horrific consequences. Was rumoured that his speciality is using a pair of secateurs to remove both the fingers, and toes of his victims, not that any had lived to testify to the fact. Black hair swept back, now greying at the temples, he has an aura about him that leaves Gabriel's throat feeling bone dry. A humourless smile as a hand is thrust towards him, accompanied by a deep rasping voice.
"Hello, son, I’ve heard a lot about you. Where are your manners then Frenchy? Give the boy a seat."
Frenchy is still slouched over, not having once raised his eyes from the floor. But on seeing the pained expression on his face when he does finally raise his head, Gabriel feels the strength draining from his body.
"Be a love, Frenchy, and fuck off. Me and the boy are going to have a cosy little chat." directs Gabriel towards the vacated wooden chair.
Casting a last anxious glance towards Gabriel, Frenchy exits the cell. Ray sits down on the solitary bed in the room, eyes never leaving Gabriel, seemingly still weighing him up.
"Want a drink, son? Got some whisky and don't like drinking alone."
Gabriel growing more apprehensive by the minute, and thinking that a glass of whisky is the last thing on his mind, but remembers Frenchy’s warning and nods appreciatively.
"Thanks, Mr Butner."
A warm glow spreading through him as he sips from the plastic cup, he smiles at Ray in gratitude.
"One of the perks of being me is that the screws stay the fuck away." A hoarse laugh is followed by a coughing spasm, "And its Ray, son. Got it?"
"Yes Mr Butner, I mean, Ray."
Ray leans forward and tops up Gabriel's cup. Groans as he stands upright, yawns and stretches. A quick glance down at Gabriel as he walks past him, stops beneath the small barred window and stares up at it.
"Suppose you are wondering what happened to Frenchy, right son?"
Gabriel doesn't answer, assumes he isn't meant to, but is thinking that it's bloody obvious as to what had happened. And nearly drops his cup, having been startled by the now raised voice of Ray Butner.
"YOU SEE SON, I can't have anybody questioning me. And it don't matter who it is. Don't get me wrong, giving Frenchy a slap doesn't mean I don't care about him. But no way can I have anybody being disrespectful. Not Frenchy, not anyone. Without respect, you are a nothing. A nobody. You understand that, right son?"
Ray turns slowly, their eyes meet, Gabriel shuddering on seeing the pure evil flowing from the soulless grey orbs. Tries to control his nerves. He just wants the man to make his intentions known so he can get the hell away from him. Knows his very survival might well depend on playing this psychopaths game.
"No, Ray. I mean, I understand. Respect is everything."
Head now swimming, he gulps noisily at the whisky, wanting to be anywhere but here and willing himself to remain calm.
“Good. And you must be thinking... Why the fuck does he want to speak to me. Right?”
A forced smile from Gabriel.
“Well, you see son, we have a lot in common. More than you probably realise. Been doing my research and seems we both grew up on the Caulston Estate. Can’t believe that concrete fucking jungle is still standing, should of flattened it years ago. Sorry son, know you still live there, don’t mean no offence by it.”
“None taken, Ray. Aint as bad as it used to be but yer, it.. Well… It aint no picnic living there.”
Thin lips curled back as he grins at Gabriel, Ray nods and continues.
“My family was one of the first to move in after it was built, shunted across from Knarlswood, our old house one of the hundreds demolished to make way for that poxy shopping centre, and forced into a tiny two up, two down terraced house. Broke my old mum’s heart it did, having to uproot and leave her community behind to go live amongst strangers in that grey, soulless hellhole. Miles from anywhere, fuck all facilities, only two pubs on the estate but both closed within six months because of the constant brawling, as was the only sodding supermarket within easy travelling distance, had more stock stolen than it sold from what I heard. Couldn’t go out after dark or you’d most likely get mugged, and if you did have a family night out, chances were you’d come back to find you’d been burgled. We were, three times in total and not like anybody gave a shit. So yer, it tore my mum’s heart out having to live there and she became a recluse in the end, only ever leaving the house if it was essential, you know!”
Sipping from his cup, Ray looks momentarily lost in his own thoughts, but there’s a more aggressive tone to his voice as his eyes once again meet Gabriel’s.
“Do you know, it was my old man who told me this, that every fucking problem family in Borrington got relocated there. Borrington Council wanted to make us easier to manage. Did you know that?”
Gabriel shakes his head, he genuinely didn’t know that.
"Yer son, the poxy council thought they could wash their hands of us. And what did that achieve?” Shrugging nervously, Gabriel’s relieved as Ray answers his own question. “It created a violent, bloody ghetto son, that's what it did. A huge estate crammed full of hard and nasty bastards from all over Borrington. And just that one school for all the kids on the estate, Caulston Park, but was no bloody chance of that ever shutting. No way the council would allow us little shits living on the estate to travel outside of Caulston, was there?”
Turning the plastic cup upside down, Ray shakes it and makes a grab for the whisky bottle. Tops them both up.
“And about the only thing you learned in that sorry excuse for a school was how to look after yourself, how to use your fists and to take no shit from anybody, no matter what. But you bloody well learned that the hard way. My first day in the dump and being a newbie, got slapped around, had my head shoved down a toilet and was robbed of my dinner money by a gang of older kids. Called themselves, The Death Watch Crew, and looked on the school as their territory. No sympathy when I got home mind, mum out of her head on tranquilisers, and as for my old man.” Ray gulps down some whisky. “He took one look at the state of me, clouted me so hard around the back of the head I was seeing stars, and told me to go make sure the wankers would never dare mess with me again. So I borrowed the baseball bat from under his bed, and did just that. Followed them, watched them, waited until they were alone and took them out one by one. And took them out hard. A couple of the shits were in hospital for months, and as for their leader, Doug Crombie, did such a number on him he didn’t ever come back. Brain damage if I remember right. Law of the jungle son, and you either swam or you sank. But that experience taught me something invaluable about myself. You see, as I was battering the fuckers senseless, I felt nothing. No guilt, no remorse, nothing. Weren’t people, weren’t anything to me, just a job done as far as I was concerned. But all the kids at the school knew my bloody name after that, and wasn’t long before the tougher ones, most as thick as pig shit if I’m being honest, started looking to me for leadership. Because not only was I a ruthless bastard, I had a good brain in my head an all. And that, son, was the start of things to come.”
Well if that revelation wasn’t enough to set Gabriel's nerves on edge, Ray’s grating and cruel laugh has his hand shaking.
“So what’s your story then, son?”
Finishing the whisky, Gabriel looks up to find those emotionless eyes peering straight into him. Sizing him up. Know he needs to get a grip. To show no weakness. Be damned if he’ll fall victim to the psycho’s mind games.
“Good with my fists Ray, and take no shit. And have my fam, on the estate you know, to look out for my back. Was twenty of us in the gang, Caulston dragons, to begin with, but had recruited three times that number in a few months. Earned their respect, kept them disciplined and form
ed a real tight group. So was easy enough to drive out the competition and take control. It’s a real sweet set up now, Ray.”
“Impressive.” Fills Gabriel’s cup, a sneer on his face at seeing the still trembling hand. “You make it sound easy, son, but like I said, have done my research. I know that just the mention of your name, and that gang of yours, scares the crap outta people. So reckon the council’s stupid bloody housing policy not only created one of the roughest and most violent estates in the country, it also created monsters like us, well me at any rate, if you believe all what you read in the papers."
More hoarse laughter.
“Let’s be honest, son, we both built our reputations through fear. Right? And when people shit their pants just hearing our name mentioned, you can take, an trust me I do, whatever the fuck you want. And aint like anybody is ever gonna be stupid enough to shoot off their mouths, is it?”
“No, Ray, nobody on the estate anyways.”
“Like I said, son, without respect, we are nothing, because reputation is everything. Know what the media call me?”
Another shake of the head.
“The Borrington Butcher. You ever heard that before?”
“I think so, maybe read it somewhere.”
Ray goes to a small wooden cupboard, pulls something metallic from it and drops it in Gabriel’s lap.
“Some jumped up prick of a journalist started printing a load of bollocks about me chopping off peoples fingers, and toes, with a pair of secateurs. Can you believe that?”
Ray bangs on the cell door, the brawny, broken nosed thug sticking his head around the corner.
“Yer Boss?”
“You found the little shit yet, Craig?”
“Yer, he’s out here.”
“Got the mobile on you son?”
Gabriel pulls it from his sock and passes it over. Having turned it on, Ray inspects the phone, Gabriel thinking that he looks like a volcano about ready to explode. Raises his hand as if ready to throw it across the room, but seems to change his mind at the last second, mumbles something incoherent beneath under his breath and turns back to Craig.
