by Shaun Baines
"Did you come here for a reason?" he asked.
"You're full of questions now, aren't you?" Lily leaned away from Daniel and into the wind. "Honestly? I wanted to know if you were sad."
Daniel glanced at a headstone as they walked. "About what?"
"Your grandmother dying," she said. "Any of it."
"Any of what?" he asked.
They stopped at the rusting gates of the cemetery leading onto Osborne Road. A drunken couple, arm in arm, serenaded each other with 'Oh When The Mags, Go Marching In', a football anthem sung at Newcastle United games.
Lily watched the couple bowl into a kebab shop and sighed. "We parted on such bad terms. I wanted to – "
An Italian restaurant played music through its open windows. Daniel and Lily were met by the smell of fresh herbs carried on the notes of a Dean Martin love song.
"It doesn't matter," Lily said. "I wanted to say, hello, I guess."
"You say it like that and it sounds like a goodbye."
"It's whatever you want it to be."
"But really you wanted to see if I was sad?"
Lily's face darkened. She took Daniel's hand, first looking at his palm and then turning his hand over. She pointed at a crescent moon scar on his knuckle. "What's this one from?"
Stabbed by Tommy Monk over a territory dispute in the West End.
"I don't remember," Daniel said.
"And this one?" she asked, pointing at a crater near his wrist.
His brother Scott on Daniel's fourteenth birthday.
He shrugged.
"They're souvenirs from a violent life," Lily said, dropping his hand. "You were born for it. Trained for it. You and your brother."
Lily stepped out of St Andrew's grounds and waved at a black cab. It pulled up to the kerb and waited. "If you were sad," she said, "if you had regrets, there was a chance this might change you. You're surrounded by death."
Lily climbed into the cab. "You and Eisha."
The cab's indicators blinked, as it readied to pull away. Daniel wanted to make things right, to say the right thing, but he didn't understand what she wanted. His hand almost went to the door handle, almost reached in for Lily, but she was hiding her face and he let her go. Again.
Dean Martin reached his crescendo and the cab disappeared in a swell of traffic.
"Was that Lily?" Bronson asked, joining him at the gates. "What did she want?"
Taking the tie from his pocket, Daniel wrapped it around the gatepost and cleared his throat. "To say goodbye."
Eisha bounced between them, tugging on Bronson's arm.
"Swing me again, Uncle Bronson."
"Haven't we spent enough time going around in circles?" he asked with a knowing glance at Daniel.
Eisha let go of Bronson's arm, her smile vanishing.
Daniel primed himself for the inevitable tantrum, preparing to step in before the first tiny fist was thrown. Bronson stepped back. The anger was brewing, frothing and spilling over the sides of her frown, but then it died, like a storm poorly forecast. A brightness returned to Eisha's face and the two men stood dumbstruck.
Bronson dragged his gaze from Eisha and looked to Daniel. "You were right about Angel Maguire." He pulled a skull mask from his pocket and waved it around. "She sent you a message."
"What are you talking about?"
"It was found by Ma Dayton's body. Angel killed your Granny. Spilling family blood is an act of war."
"Can I play in the cemetery, Daddy?" Eisha asked, skipping around them. "Can I?"
"Yes, for God's sake."
Eisha ran into the tall grass and began jumping on the graves.
Daniel and Bronson followed her in, turning their backs on the noise of Osborne Road to walk among the silence of the dead.
"And there's something else," Bronson said.
They marched down the path together. Bronson took a sharp left and stood in front of a grave separated from all the rest. It was covered in plastic bags of dog shit. There were empty beer cans and the remains of a small fire. The headstone had been embellished with a spray-painted cock, but the gold inlay letters were visible. They read 'Ed Dayton. Gone but not forgotten.' His birth and death dates were inscribed underneath.
"You see what the Maguires are doing to us?" Bronson asked. "There's no respect anymore."
"Well, you did steal their coke."
Bronson shook his head. "That was business and they're making it personal. Your father would never have stood for it."
It was the first time Daniel had been to his father's grave, the man who taught him to be cruel. Now that he was here, shuffling from foot to foot, he saw what everyone else saw. Two dates with nothing in between. The life his father led wasn't there. He'd been reduced to a slab of marble with a spray-painted cock on it.
"I told you someone was making a move on us, but you didn't believe me," Daniel said before pointing at his father's grave. "This won't happen to me. I want a future and a family for my daughter. I want the time between my birth and death to mean something."
Bronson tugged his jacket close.
"Dear old Dad inspired treachery and hate," Daniel said. "I won't do that."
"What will you do, then? You need to act."
Daniel moved away from the grave, releasing a breath he hadn't known he was holding. "You can clean this up, if you want. Or don't, but whatever you do, don't question me again."
Eisha ran to a stop beside them. She was breathless and giddy, and her shoes were caked in mud. "What a horrible grave. I'm not jumping on that one."
"Good idea," Bronson said to her. "We wouldn't want you to do anything sacrilegious."
She nodded, pretending to understand. "We'll do what we did with Great-Granny."
Eisha picked up a handful of soil. "Ashes to ashes," she shouted and threw the soil onto Ed's grave. There was a click and two steel jaws erupted from the grave, showering them in dirt and dog shit. They clamped together with a clang, the sound echoing through the cemetery, startling the birds overhead.
The man-trap sat proud of the disturbed earth, its jagged teeth locked in a deadly bite.
Eisha cried in fright, rushing into Daniel's arms. Bronson ducked to a crouch, searching through the trees, absently removing a bag of dog shit from his hair.
Daniel looked at his startled daughter. He dropped to a knee and gave Eisha a hug. "Are you okay, honey?"
She was white, but managed a nod.
"I can't keep bringing you to places like this," he said. "It's too dangerous. You're learning too much."
"I don't mind," Eisha said, her voice small.
Rubbing her cheek with a thumb, Daniel smiled. "Yes, you do."
He got back to his feet and fixed Bronson with a stare. "We sell this coke fast."
"I'll take care of everything. We make some money and buy in more muscle. We'll be wiping Maguires off the bottom of our shoes in no time."
Daniel rubbed his chin. "I know a guy who will take it off our hands. Clive Hawk. He runs a block of flats called The Devil's Playground. He'll use up the coke there. I don't want it leaking onto the streets."
Bronson blinked slowly. "How do you know about Clive?"
"Scott did some business with him once," Daniel said. "Go get the coke and we'll meet you there."
"I said, you don't have to do anything." Bronson's lips thinned and he ran a hand through his hair. "I'll handle it."
"You'll need back up," Daniel said.
"You can't bring Eisha, can you? It's not fit for a rabid dog, let alone a kid."
The twitch in Bronson's cheek exploded.
There was something he wasn't telling him. Daniel focused on Bronson's every move, reading his thoughts.
Bronson squirmed, dancing under his laser glare.
Daniel stopped himself. This was a friend; his only friend and all the grown-up family Eisha had left.
"Is that the only reason you don't want me at The Devil's Playground?" Daniel asked. "You're not hiding anything, are you?"
"Can we go now, Daddy?" Eisha asked, slipping her hand into his.
Daniel looked down at his daughter's upturned face.
"Find somewhere safe for her," Bronson said. "Away from this madness." He walked to the exit, but shouted over his shoulder. "You can trust me."
Bronson had disappeared by the time Daniel and Eisha reached the rusting gates. It was a short walk to Daniel's van, but long enough to dispel his disquiet over Bronson's behaviour. His friend was right. Eisha was the priority. If the legacy of the Daytons was over, then he had to protect what little good remained in them. He would find a safe place for Eisha and start his hunt for the unknown Angel Maguire.
Daniel rubbed his throat where his tie had been. It was hot to the touch and he thought of Lily. Perhaps, it didn't have to be goodbye, after all.
Chapter Fifteen
Scott woke from a nightmare and writhed in his bed, bucking against the terror in his heart. It was night and his room was swathed in darkness. In his nightmare, he had been by the lake at Five Oaks, but it wasn't as he remembered. The lake was stained red, the gentle waves replaced by flames and there was a keening in the wind.
He was on his knees, straddling his brother Daniel. His fist raised, but it wasn't his. It belonged to someone else. There were curled hairs on the knuckles, a signet ring on the fourth finger. The fist was too big for Scott's young arm and it was growing, feeling heavier by the second. It would drop soon, no matter what he did.
Daniel looked at him with frightened eyes. Scott had to use the fist. He had to hurt his brother, but Daniel was just a boy, thin and weak. He'd done something, annoyed him somehow, but that wasn't why Scott needed to hurt him.
A voice called, urging Scott on. He looked at the lake and saw his father walking over the waves, the flames catching the soles of his feet.
"Scott," his father said.
Daniel had to be taught a lesson. It would make him harder. It would temper him in the fire, but why? Why was his brother so special? Why did he deserve the extra care of a beating? And now Scott did want to hurt him. He wanted his brother to suffer. The fist was raised and it belonged to Scott.
Their father stepped onto the charred pebbles of the lakeshore. His suit was a cloak of flames and Scott feared him getting too close. He didn't want to be burned in a fatherly embrace.
"Don't be scared," said a voice, but Scott didn't recognise it. The voice was soft and kind, not the gruff tones of his father or the pleading whimpers of his brother.
Scott ground his teeth, preparing to strike. If he failed, then the blow would land on him or he would be taken to The Room; an evil place, a place where Daniel stayed whenever his brother needed him, knowing Scott was too afraid to enter.
"Scott," the voice said and he woke properly, gasping, chained to The Devil's Playground. The terror eased and, for once, he was grateful for the protection of his cell. The paint on the walls glowed red and the room was silent, save for the beating of his heart.
He twisted, alleviating the pain of his bed sores. His skin was damp with sweat. His temperature was high and his tongue rasped on the roof of a dry mouth.
When was his last hit? It was difficult to keep track, but he was crashing. His craving was like hungry ants in his head.
"Scott?"
He turned to the voice of his nightmare. He had brought it back with him. Searching the room, he saw a presence lurking in the doorway, clothed in shadows.
Biting his lip, the pain focused Scott's mind and his heroin fever abated long enough to see the figure better. It was fat and familiar. It wasn't Clive. His captor manifested with a flourish, like a showman letting Scott know the matinée was about to begin. This figure seemed apprehensive, reluctant to approach, perhaps fearful of being stained by his addiction.
It was a woman, he saw that now, washed in the red of his walls. It masked her face, but he saw dark lines etched around her eyes. Something swung in her hand, a blade or weapon of some kind. It moved like a pendulum, counting down his remaining seconds.
His heart thrummed in his chest. The terror of his nightmare returned. He pulled on his chains, vulnerable and trapped.
The woman drifted through the room, pointing the weapon toward him.
Chapter Sixteen
Bronson parked in the shadow of The Devil's Playground out of the morning sun. His shining BMW neighboured a dented Nissan on one side and an overturned shopping trolley on the other. He wondered about the company he was keeping and climbed from the car, pulling up the collar of his jacket.
He'd almost been discovered back at the funeral, his secret almost unearthed, but Daniel trusted him. The thought that Scott was jailed at The Playground wouldn't have occurred to Daniel. He was simply offering a helping hand.
And it made Bronson's betrayal worse.
No Dayton could ever enter The Playground and leave alive. Bronson's life depended on it.
He stared across the car park and wrapped his knuckles on the roof of his car. "I need you inside."
Sprout jolted awake in the passenger seat. He grappled with his seatbelt and fell out of the door. "You don't want me to wait?"
"If you want your share of the coke money, you'll have to earn it."
The engine barely had time to cool before a group of children surrounded them. Bronson was beginning to recognise them. It was the same gang at every visit. A girl of about ten blew gum into a bubble. It popped and stuck to her chin. A younger boy with a shaved head swung a windscreen wiper like a sword, but it was the boy in the Parka jacket that always came forward.
Bronson searched his pocket for a fiver.
"You want some smack, mate?" the Parka boy asked.
The five-pound note was crushed in Bronson's fist. "What happened to looking after my car while I'm inside?"
The boy opened his coat. Sellotaped to his pigeon chest were silver wraps of heroin, like the wisps of feathers on an oven ready bird. "We don't do that no more. We're selling, bro."
"Bro?" Sprout asked, sniggering. "How old are you?"
Whipping out a Stanley knife, the boy pointed it at Sprout's thigh. "Old enough to cut you, bro. Are you buying or what?"
Pushing Sprout aside, Bronson stood in front of the blade. "Back down, little man."
There were five wraps in total. Bronson ripped each one from the boy's skin, dropping them down a nearby drain. "How much do you need?" he asked.
The boy rubbed his chest. "How much have you got?"
A burgundy Mercedes turned into the car park. Its windows were tinted black, obscuring the driver from view. Cars like that always had someone riding in the back, thought Bronson. The windows were intended for them.
"Who's that?" he asked.
The Mercedes stopped by the ring of a spent bonfire, flashing its lights. The children scattered to the four corners of the car park. Only the boy in the Parka lingered, his hand outstretched.
"Come on, man," he said. "She'll kill me if I don't get paid for that smack."
Bronson held up thirty pounds, dangling it over the boy's head. "Tell me who she is. What does she want?"
The boy jumped into the air, snatching the money in his grubby hand. He ran through the car park, his Parka jacket flapping behind him as he disappeared into a concrete pass.
"Little sod," Bronson muttered.
The Mercedes drove in a wide arc, crawling in a circle with Bronson at its centre. Light glanced off its black windows and the car appeared to wink. It joined a road and slipped into the anonymous traffic.
"S-Class saloon," Sprout said. "About eighty grand new, but I could steal you one for forty."
Rolling his eyes, Bronson waved Sprout on and they walked toward The Devil's Playground. Stepping over broken toys and dirty syringes, they passed the smouldering wreck of a car. A woman in rags, her eyes fixed to their faces, warmed her hands over the engine fire.
The entrance to The Playground was a plexiglass double door decorated in phone numbers for dubious services. They creaked as Bronson pulle
d them open.
"Why were you so nice to that kid?" Sprout asked, peering through the doors. "You didn't have to give him any money."
"Why did I stop him cutting you up like last night's kebab?" Bronson asked. "Because I'm an idiot, that's why. Now, listen carefully. We're here to see a guy called Clive Hawk. He runs this place and he'll take the coke off our hands, but don't get the wrong idea about him. He'll tell you he's a good guy, but he's lower than a snake's belly."
They stepped into the hallway and were hit with the smell of urine. No matter how many times Bronson had been there, he never got used to it. The heat was no help, either. The hallway had a concrete floor, stained brown with unknown fluids. Above them, the fluorescent light flickered, casting snapshots of their silhouettes on crumbling walls.
Bronson pressed the button for the lift, hoping it was working. "Two years ago, a rival drug dealer took up residence in The Playground. He was a big lad. The kind of guy who craps out double decker buses. Anyway, when Clive finished with him, there was nothing left, but his gold teeth. It was a warning to his rivals."
Someone in the tower screamed and Sprout looked back at the car. "Why do you need me here?"
"It's time for you to step up," Bronson said. "You found the cocaine. I'm relying on you to help me sell it."
The lift cranked into action, its gears juddering. Sprout cast a wary eye at the floor numbers as they counted down. "Is that the only reason?"
"I thought you wanted to get more involved?" Bronson asked.
"I mean, I need the money, but look at this place. What the hell happened here?"
Bronson breathed through his mouth. "I told you. Clive happened."
The lift's mechanism whined and it hit the ground floor with a bump. When the doors finally opened, the inside stank of smoke.
"After you," Bronson said.
Sprout curled his lip, but moved toward the lift.
Bronson stopped him with a hand. "Have you got a death wish, lad? The only place that lift will take us is down to hell. Come on. I'm not risking it. We're going to have to use the stairs."
The door to the stairway was blocked by plastic bags filled with rubbish. A host of flies fed on whatever was leaking down their side. Bronson kicked the bags out of his way and the flies took to the air.
