by Shaun Baines
"The cheek of it," Lee said.
The drapes shifted, clunking along their rails. The screen came to life with a short film about fire exits and general cinema etiquette as dictated by a dancing hot dog. Lee had seen it so many times, he could recite it word for word. Dismissing the advice, he opened his packet of Haribo. The two men shifted in their seats at the sound of the crinkling plastic.
He bit into a fried egg. "Why did they have to sit so close?" Lee asked. "It's going to ruin the film."
"I think you're just jealous," The Dude said, brushing popcorn from his beard. "They've got dates and all you've got is me."
"Would you prefer me to bring a girlfriend? I could get one if I wanted."
The Dude snorted. "You should ask out the boss. She's single. Very single."
"She's been single since the womb and you know why? She's scary as shit."
"And mental." The Dude studied an unopened kernel. "How long are you going to work for her? Things have been feeling a bit dicey lately."
Recently, there'd been a lot of talk about takeovers and expansions. Opportunities for the right men were coming, but like everything in life, those things came at a cost. Lee squished a jelly baby between his thumb and forefinger, wondering when that price would become too high.
The first trailer was for the new Dwayne Johnson epic Thunder Cars, where Dwayne stole high-end vehicles to pay off his debt to a mafia boss. It sounded stupid and loud, and Lee couldn't wait to see it. Next was Melissa McCarthy in Taiwanese Jail Bait where she accidentally ends up in prison and making unlikely friendships.
"She's always good value," Lee said to The Dude.
One of the men turned at his voice and Lee flicked him the finger.
"I've been waiting for this film for ages," he said, "and these numbnuts are spoiling it."
"Try to relax." The Dude did the international hand gesture for wanker and the man slumped into his seat. "We've earned this after the last few days. Al Pacino in a biopic of John Gotti. It's a marriage made in heaven."
Lee was a fan of many different actors, but reigning over them all was Pacino, especially when he went back to his gangster roots. Scarface, Carlito's Way and of course, The Godfather trilogy. No-one did icy and dangerous like him. The script had been bouncing around Hollywood for years, but was deemed too violent to bring to the big screen. Lee had to hand it to Pacino. He never backed away from bloodshed.
The trailers ended and the lights dimmed. Lee shot The Dude an excited thumbs up and settled into his seat, his wide grin visible in the dark.
This was it. The show was about to start.
The screen flared into brightness and the fire exit burst open. Two men rushed into the cinema. One was tall with ice-white skin while the other was short with a twitch in his cheek. They wore orange boiler suits and swung claw hammers in the air. They charged at the couples two rows ahead.
The tall man began using his hammer. Even against the roaring opening credits, Lee heard the wet thuds. The man with a twitch grabbed the women by their designer clothes, throwing them to the ground, kicking them toward the exit.
Lee's mouth watered as if he might be sick. The Dude beat him to it, retching over the arm of his chair, throwing up into the aisle. Lee couldn't tear his eyes from the carnage in front of him. Al Pacino appeared on the screen, looming over the tall man's shoulder as he attacked the second man, who was attempting to flee over the back of his chair. The tall man jumped on him, bringing down the hammer, like a judge's gavel. A mist of blood splattered on his boiler suit.
The man with the twitch herded the women out of the exit then joined his partner, hammering strikes onto their victims. When the two men stopped groaning, the men in the boiler suits stopped hitting them.
Lee slipped to the floor, dragging The Dude down with him. They held onto each other and Lee worried at his lip.
"Do you believe me now?" he heard the tall man say.
"Fine. We're on the same side," said the other, "but what do we do now?"
Gunfire from the screen interrupted the silence between them.
"You have to go and see him," the tall man said. "He won't tell me where it is."
"You think he'll tell me? We're not exactly swapping saliva at the minute."
By the time the police finished questioning Lee, it was too late to return to the shop. He called his boss Maureen to explain they had been witnesses to a gangland hit. She was surprisingly sympathetic and noting the tremor in his voice, came to his flat later that evening. They drank wine and talked about films, and Lee handed in his notice. If their DVD rental business was hitting the skids, then he was seeking opportunities elsewhere.
Lee couldn't identify the men in boiler suits. It had been too dark, but that night in bed, holding Maureen in his arms, he saw what they had done over and over, like a film reel on a loop. It played on the back of his eyelids. He was trapped in a cinema of his own making and it would be a long time before he escaped.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Angel ran her fingers through a bowl of sugared cola cubes, listening to them clink and grind together. The bowl sat on her desk next to a computer that cost her mother three thousand pounds, a fact she often repeated over dinner. Its black mirrored tower flashed with pinpricks of light and it hummed like an aircraft preparing for take-off.
The gun oil still stained her chubby hands. She had enjoyed using the pistol on Bear and his family, but the computer was her biggest weapon. It could rewrite history and invent new ones. There was data to mine and profiles to steal. Angel could reach into every home in the world and take what she wanted.
Popping a cola cube into her mouth, she punched in her password with a single, sticky finger.
Her bedroom was at the front of the house. Shelves were stacked with the sort of books she thought she should read. The walls were as pale as her skin and the floor was hard. She had a double bed, taking pleasure in sleeping in the middle without anyone to disturb her, though Hope had often made painful comments about it.
Bet she hasn't got much to say for herself now, though, Angel said without realising it. She'll be begging them for her next hit by now. Maybe resorting to doing the things she's been bragging about all this time.
Beyond her desk was a bay window overlooking the garden, but the glass was painted white. Outside was a pond that made her shudder.
Are you going to commit to this or what?
"Just give me a chance," Angel answered.
You've had plenty of chances.
Opening a window on the computer screen, Angel looked through it to another world. "There. Look. I'm doing it."
Few visitors stepped inside her bedroom, but Angel often heard her mother and sister listening through the door. That's when it was hardest to control her impulses. The thought of them being so close, so ready to criticise, made her ill. The pressure built and a crack severed her head in two. Whenever Angel heard them, she tapped harder on the keyboard to drown them out.
"You've really taken to computer things," her mother had said at the dinner table. "What are you doing with it?"
Angel spoke of probability vectors and spreadsheets, Gantt charts and predictability swings; all tools they'd need to bring the Maguire empire into the modern age. For once, her mother's eyes had glistened with interest. It was all the encouragement Angel needed. Later that night, she turned the computer on for the first time.
Now, don't get flaky on me, girl. You can do this.
"God, you sound more like Hope every day."
Angel rolled the cola cube around her mouth, softening the sharp edges with her tongue. She swallowed her sweet saliva with effort and logged onto Tyne-der, selecting the Looking for Love section. Her heart pounded, but she fought her panic. These men were looking for love, too.
There was Graham with his interest in collecting gin bottles. Next down was Stephen, a nutritionist who played outdoor sports. Angel scratched her round stomach and moved on, delighted to find a new member.
Daryl was older than the rest with a relaxed face and false teeth. There was something familiar about him that stirred her.
The photograph of her father sat on her desk. There was no comparison between the two men. Her father was thinner with teeth coloured yellow from nicotine. The familiarity of Daryl did not interest Angel. He was so opposite to her father as to have almost circled back to the same place.
"If I sent him a message, do you think he would reply?" Angel stifled a girlish giggle, like a teenager in the throes of her first crush.
Of course, he would. I mean, look at him.
She touched the racing pulse in her neck, suddenly awash with guilt. The only man who had professed to love her was watching while she pursued another. Taking a paper clip from a drawer, she straightened it and scratched out the eyes from the photograph. Things were changing and she had to change with them. She slid the photograph under the new mask decorated with an avenging angel. The Maguires hid behind skulls and Angel wasn't hiding anymore.
Her finger hovered over the mouse button, the cursor blinking over the Send Message box on the screen. She licked her lips and wondered if Daryl was the kind of man who liked a woman to lick her lips. If he found it sexy or contrived.
"He looks understanding," she said. "Kind."
You'll find out if you press the bloody button.
"Alright. Alright."
Whirling the cursor around the screen, Angel positioned it dead centre over the box. She exhaled slowly. One click is all it would take. Her heart beat a tattoo. Her finger bobbed to its rhythm. She'd been here before, waiting for the courage to leap into the unknown. It was like stepping out onto a busy road, hoping to make it to the other side.
Well done, girl.
Angel had closed her eyes without knowing. Squinting, she looked to the screen.
"I did it. I pressed it," she said.
Another window opened, new and alien. The picture of Daryl's lopsided face was at the top of the screen. Underneath was a grey box with the words Type Here…
Just put a simple hello. Nothing mental. Just, Hi, how are you? Would you like to chat?
"What if he says no?"
A red envelope bounced onto the screen carried by a digital Cupid, its buttocks pink and shiny.
Have you sent your message?
"Of course not. It's taken me two months to get this far." Angel's own buttocks squeaked in fright and she rubbed her chin with a shaking hand. "That's a message from someone else. It's my first ever message."
Open it then, you moron.
The cursor did its familiar dance, alighting on the envelope and spiriting away, like a butterfly unable to settle. There was a tickling behind Angel's eyes and she grit her teeth, forcing her finger onto the mouse button.
The envelope opened with a flourish, tiny red hearts showering forth. When they faded away, Angel saw there was no message. The envelope was empty save for the subject line.
It read: LET'S MEET TODAY from Mr Smith.
Her mouth opened and closed. She had never seen Mr Smith on the website before. Apparently, he was a new member with not much to say, but he had no need to. His profile picture said it all. He was a handsome man with an enigmatic face. Her sweaty palms told her she was interested, but as attracted to him as she was, that wasn't what held her attention.
Angel scrambled from her room, racing down the corridor.
Mr Smith had taken his profile photo outside of her front door.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Bronson's stolen car limped into the scrapyard, but as far as the Fiesta was concerned, the party was over. Masani promised to look at it, but without Sprout as a helping hand, it would take time. Marvin had visited the boy's flat on his way home from the bowling green. He was met by a grizzled chip shop owner demanding this week's rent. Although smaller than Marvin, she wouldn't let him leave until payment was made. They searched the property together and found nothing remarkable, apart from the mould growing in the sink.
Bronson took the Jaguar from the garage. There was no other way of getting to Five Oaks and its sale would have to be postponed.
He parked outside of the double doors and stared over the lake. The garden was filled with songbirds, resting between practice flights for a lengthier migration. Their calls grated on him, being somewhere between criticism and advice. Bronson flipped them the finger and went inside, stepping into the great hallway, his nose wrinkling in distaste.
Cobwebs hung from the teardrops of the crystal chandelier. They were heavy with dust and pitted with the tiny black bodies of flies. Bronson saw Daniel's dirty footprints next to Eisha's smaller feet in the grime of the floor.
In Ed's time, Five Oaks had been a palace.
A noise came from the second floor. Shuffling or scraping, followed by a thud. Bronson climbed the oak staircase, his heart beating in his head. The twitch in his cheek slowed. The thought of surprising Daniel didn't seem like a good idea. He would be angry, possibly even hurt. Bronson couldn't avoid him forever and hoped Daniel hadn't prepared some form of an elaborate punishment.
He paused by a bedroom, drumming fingers on his chest. Bronson leaned in closer, but the noises had stopped.
He slowly opened the door.
The room was swathed in darkness. Heavy curtains held daylight at bay. It was the cell of a monk or a prisoner doing serious time. Daniel sat on the edge of his bed frame, his elbows propped on his knees and his head in hands. Tangled bedsheets lay at his feet.
Bronson cleared his throat. "I said, I'd come back."
Jumping to his feet, Daniel's mouth slackened. He picked up the bedsheets before dropping them again and kicking them behind an oak wardrobe. He shoved a mass of dirty clothes under the bed, spinning on his heels to slam the drawer shut on his bedside cabinet.
He emerged from under a shadow, a sliver of light cutting his face in half. "I didn't think you'd have the balls to face me."
"Bear was shot at his house. Bear and his family. Ex-husband and adopted daughter."
The phone call had come from DCI Spencer. It was brief and to the point, but it was Bronson who ended the call. He hadn't wanted the policeman to hear the croak in his voice.
"Adopted?" Daniel asked, picking at his fingernails.
"It was Angel. She's on her own, working solo and she's going wild. It was payback for burning her cocaine." Bronson scratched his cheek. "Which you didn't do, did you?"
Daniel's face hardened. "Scott shared my secret with you. It's only fair, I suppose. You kept his."
"What I did was wrong and I came here for a straightener, but if it hadn't been for Scott, we wouldn't have been able to take out two of their guys."
"Because you worked as a team," Daniel said in a cool tone.
Bronson held out his hands. "I'm sorry, but look at you. Look at this house. You're losing it."
"The knife you used to stab me in the back should have been stuck in Scott. You lied to me."
"I lied?" Bronson asked, raising his voice. "What about all this? And what about the cocaine? You pretended to burn it when you've got it stashed someplace else. Keeping it from us."
"You're right," Daniel said. "I haven't been fair with you. The cocaine is in the kitchen."
The floor creaked under his feet as Bronson adjusted his stance. "Pardon?"
"In a cupboard in the kitchen. Whether Scott is alive or not, it doesn't matter. We need to sell this cocaine. Can you and Scott handle that?"
A pressure built in Bronson's head as Daniel's eyes drilled into his. He felt like a balloon about to be popped.
Bronson nodded, his mouth clamped shut.
"Right. Let's get it then," Daniel said.
Bronson left the room first, grateful for the light outside. He moved to the top of the staircase, unable to take the first step down. "I really am sorry, mate. I only did what I thought was right. It's been tearing me up inside."
"I forgive you," Daniel said.
The kick was ferocious. The heel of Daniel's boot str
uck the small of Bronson's back. He tumbled forward. His shoulder bounced off the stairs. Bronson pivoted in the air, watching his useless legs sail over his head. He struck a railing, ribs crunching together, barrelling him in another direction, down more stairs. The hallway whirled around him, a kaleidoscope of browns and flashes of crystal until he landed with a crack. His teeth jarred and the hall grew dim.
Fingers knitted into an iron clasp through his hair. The skin of his face stretched as Daniel dragged him through the house. Bronson's heels scraped along the floor, leaving clean marks in the dirt. He struggled, but Daniel's grip was as unforgiving as marble. Unidentified ceilings skated overhead and when he came to rest, Bronson didn't know where he was.
Pain sucked on every nerve ending in his body. He was weak, his head rolling from side to side. Rope slithered over his neck, choking him. Something heavy and cold was weighted on his chest and tied securely. Bronson was unable to move.
Everything went quiet.
Steadying himself, Bronson gazed around the room. He saw a silver Smeg fridge. A red light was flashing on the door, telling him it wasn't closed properly. Melted ice water seeped over the lip and Bronson guessed the light had been flashing for a while. Discarded foil cartons were stacked on a kitchen counter.
Daniel stood at a central island holding a green canister of petrol.
Bronson looked to the weight on his chest. It was a square shape with a wire and a plug. He tried to swallow. From where he lay, it looked like a microwave.
"What are you doing?" he asked, his voice scratching at his throat.
"I needed to make a choice," Daniel said. "When the axe falls, you need to be on the right or the left of it. Never in the middle."
Unscrewing the canister, Daniel sloshed petrol into a ceramic mixing bowl. He opened the door of the microwave and placed it carefully inside. "Keep still."
Daniel crushed foil cartons into tapers. "Dad never came into the kitchen. I don't think Mam did either. I'm not surprised, really. Everything's silver and Dad preferred gold. He always said, there was no prize for second best."
