Never Back Down

by Solomon Carter

  “Frequently. What have you got?”

  “It’s only the rising star of the newspaper industry.”

  “Go on. I don’t read any rags.”

  “The Daily. It’s one of those free papers you find ditched on the commuter trains. It’s got a mix of abbreviated highbrow news, celeb rubbish, business news and sport all with a semi-intellectual slant. It’s a newspaper which flatters its readers to believe they are not reading a tabloid, while all the time that is exactly what it is.”

  “Just like the I.”

  “Kind of, but not as good. Think of this as a substandard I. But do you know who Senior Editor in Chief is?”

  “Pope Francis.” Eva knew already, but Jess was in her flow.

  “One Victor Marka.”

  “He kills, he kidnaps, he writes. Marka is a one man band par excellence.”

  “But here’s the good news. The building is located in a part of London I’ve never heard of before.”

  “That’s the good news? I’m thrilled.”

  “Shad Thames. Have you ever heard of it?”

  “Up and coming Shad Thames.”

  “Right. Whatever. It’s in Southwark – that’s the good bit.”

  “Well done. Shad Thames used to be a hole, but like they did with the Docklands in the eighties, they smartened it up and made it all metrosexual with al fresco cafés, jazz and lots of glass and curved shaped buildings. It’s gone from a dump to becoming prime Real Estate for city boys and boardroom execs.”

  “I still think it’s a weird name. Anyway. That’s where the Daily is housed, just by the river in a building called White Star House.”

  Eva nodded. “Marka’s own brand name.”

  “It fits.”

  “Bull’s-eye. Put it on the list. We’ve got two addresses to visit but only half of the day left. Dagenham and Shad Thames are poles apart in terms of class, wealth, everything. And they couldn’t be much further apart on the map either.”

  “Well, we won’t be buying a travel card if we want to make it on time.”

  The London tubes were dirty and crammed. Only an hour away, Essex was a different world to the grime and pressure of London, which was summed up in the sweaty, busy and stressful London Underground. Jess couldn’t face it. Neither could Eva.

  “You’re right. Let’s travel in style. The Alfa.”

  “You’ll hit the congestion charge.”

  “Am I going to care about that today? Let me think! If we survive, we can pay tomorrow.” Eva grinned but regretted talking about survival. Jess’s life was off-limits; Eva had the option to lose her own if she had to without much worry. With Dan gone, she was obliged to risk her life, but Jess was too young to die. No one should risk their life just for their job. Eva decided she would send Jess home when the time was right. But for now, to keep her spirits up Eva needed the company.

  “Where first?”

  “The Dagenham Warehouse. That would be the obvious place to keep a prisoner, wouldn’t it?” said Eva.

  “Yep, the warehouse. The movies all have their showdowns in a warehouse, right? So let’s cut to the chase.”

  “There must be a lot of space to hide someone you don’t want people to find over there.”

  “If you say so.”

  “I don’t know, Jess. By the end of the day, we’re going to find Dan Bradley. But I’d rather get Dan out and avoid the showdown finale. This game is stacked way too much in favour of Marka.”

  “But they won’t be expecting us, will they?”

  “Look at us, Jess. If I was a maniac Russian gangster, I wouldn’t be expecting us either.”

  “Exactly.”

  They shared a stupid smile thinly papering over their nerves and opened the door into the summer sun. Eva took a look back around her office and then closed the door before the pang of fear could push her back. Every moment from now on they would be getting closer to the end game… they could not beat a dignified retreat. She owed Dan her career - the whole person she had become. Even if he was an insufferable idiot, it turned out that he wasn’t a paranoid delusional after all. Marka really was out to get him. Now Eva was too. They walked away and Eva paid no attention to the white Toyota with the tinted windows. This time if she had looked, she would have found a recognisable face behind the glass peering at her. But she didn’t look up at all.

  Terry, the man in the Toyota found both women more than pleasing to look at, and he wondered what he would do to them both if had the chance. He also knew there was no chance of it ever happening. For one, from the look in Gillespie’s eye and the fact the old man let her live, the leather face fancied her himself. And if that was the case, maybe he planned to feed her to Mad Maggie and get his own kicks as part of the bargain. No, Terry had no chance of making fantasy into reality. And there was another reason why it could never happen. What these two birds were getting themselves into was stupid. It was literally deadly stupid. They planned to take on the deadliest gangster in London, just in order to save a man who was, to all intents and purposes, a waste of space, and pretty much already dead. If they stayed stupid enough to take on the Russian, then the bastard would be the one to have his fun with them before they were killed. Terry wondered which was preferable – a bedroom date with Mad Maggie or Victor Marka… the end result would be the same, but the journey getting there would be wildly different.

  The women were leaving and from their laughter you couldn’t tell that they were lambs to the slaughter, but that was what they were.

  Gillespie knew it, and he said he admired the red-head, though Terry knew Gillespie lusted too. Gillespie wanted her chaperoned all the way to London, to see what transpired. And if the girls made it as far as the old man hoped, Terry was to call him. Silly girls. They were in far too deep. They were bait. They were a trap. Expendable. Terry eyed their curves as they walked down the street. What a bloody shame. And as he shook his head, he became alert and froze once more. A tall and muscular man was approaching them directly. He was on a mission. The man’s face was ruddy, angry, emotional and wore huge jug ears. He was wearing a cheap silvery grey suit and he looked tired. In short, the man was a copper. These poor bitches attracted problems like paperclips to a magnet. He would call all of it in, just as soon as it was safe to do so. He pulled around the next corner and drew to the kerb as soon as he was out of sight. And there was the gleaming red Alfa Romeo waiting across the street.

  “What are you playing at, Eva?” said Rowntree, his face looking like that of a spurned lover and a copper on the scent all at once.

  “I’m busy. You know how it is. One minute you’re scratching around for work and you’re desperate, the next minute, you’re overworked and desperate for a holiday. I just hadn’t gotten round to calling, that’s all.”

  “Is that right? But you know your old chum Devon Parker was killed last night, don’t you?”

  Eva showed no sign of anything, no clue at all, which told Rowntree she knew everything.

  “You were there, weren’t you, Eva?”

  “We’re busy. Can we talk about this when I get back from London?”

  “Listen here, Miss,” said Rowntree, changing tack by addressing Jess rather than Eva.

  “If either of you were near Albany Park last night between the times of eight-fifteen and eight forty-five I need to know, and I need statements. If you are withholding information from police on a murder investigation, I could arrest you.”

  “On what grounds?”

  “I’ll work that out. You could be the bloody murderer, you aren’t saying a thing, are you?!”

  “I haven’t seen you this angry before---- but you know I didn’t hurt Parker. If Parker got himself killed, it’s probably because Parker got involved with people he really shouldn’t have, don’t you think?”

  “Could be,” he said, picking up Eva’s emphasis and nodding his head. “I still need to speak to you, Eva. This is serious. Deadly serious. The Somali boys didn’t just move in Albany Park last night.
They took down the Mitkins. This is big boy stuff, Eva. They also took out another man, a Turkish man in Westcliff, and have been creating merry hell over at the Kingsmere Estate into the morning. It was like Baghdad last night. Shock and awe. They’ve been throwing the biggest and most fucked up celebration I’ve ever seen. What do you think’s going on, Eva… with your detective hat on?”

  “I don’t wear hats, but I might think it was a take-over, wouldn’t you? One gang takes out another and throws a little soiree to celebrate.”

  “I might. But these boys - it’s not their style. They might be a lot of things, these Somali boys, but subterfuge and insurgency is not their style. These people are as direct as a hammer. They come at you hard, probably with a machete too. You might not like them, but you know where you are with them. They don’t do plots and take-overs. They do big broad stroke moves, they move in waves, like soldiers in a war, not like spooks. Someone else’s fingerprints are on this.”

  “Really?” said Eva.

  “Really,” said Rowntree, his eyes boring into Eva’s.

  “I’ve got to go. Listen… tomorrow, the coffee’s on me. I’ll tell you all my ideas and theories.”

  “And everything you know. Or you’ll be drinking the instant we serve in the cells, Eva, and I’m not kidding.”

  “Understood,” she said as she started walking past him.

  “Eva?” said Rowntree.

  “What?”

  “Learn from Parker. You should have learned from Bradley by now. Don’t get yourself in too deep, Eva. I don’t want to find you dead because you’ve gotten involved with people you really shouldn’t have.”

  “I’m a big girl, Rowntree. Coffee tomorrow, on me. I’ll even throw in a pastry.”

  “Just put me in the picture, tomorrow and no later. Right. Or I’ll come looking.”

  “It’ll be the full story, I promise,” she said with her best, cutest smile. And then they turned the corner and walked as briskly to the Alfa as their legs could carry them.

  “Eva, he’s got a crush on you.”

  “He’s a man. They sweat over anything in tights,” said Eva.

  She gunned the Alfa into life and passed a side street where the big face of a white Toyota was waiting, engine running. The Toyota pulled out onto the Southchurch Road just one car after the Alfa. The tail was on, the driver confident they could not escape him even if he was seen.

  Thirteen

  The darkness in the basement at Shad Thames was not just the absence of light, it was a presence, a living feeling, and it pressed upon Dan Bradley from all sides. When the temperature dropped, he guessed it was night, and the coldness pressed at him then, making his bones ache as he shivered. His injuries were not agonising, but the pain was ever-present. He longed to move his arms and stretch his legs. He wondered if he was able to break free of the bindings on his wrists, whether he would be able to push himself up to stand, let alone walk. He knew he had to make a move. They were coming more frequently than they had been, he was sure of it, and he sensed a perverse excitement rising in them. They were psychopaths, these German boys, he could see and feel it - they lived for the kill. And he was the next kill. They were hanging around more outside the door of his cell in the last few hours, chatting and laughing like school boys about to feel up their first female conquest together. Dan wanted to kill them. Ordinarily, he would never do such a thing, but these people were a direct reflection of the person who had hired them. And he hated that man with a rekindled passion beyond anything he had ever known. The feeling only rivalled the intensity of feeling he held for Eva. He loved her still – it was easier to admit when facing death - what was true and what was not. He loved her in a different way now than in their youth and it was a lot more than the sex, though he missed that as well. It was about knowing her, and knowing she knew him as well as any person on the earth – knowing that they would never want to change each other even though she drove him mad. Dan understood she had wanted to change him once, but she had found she could never do it. The appeal of project Dan Bradley, a project for life, may have dimmed. Her love for him had changed, he knew. Victor Marka was responsible for that too. He had scarred their love affair. But he could never destroy it. Even Eva would realise some day. Even if it took his death to make it happen. He was thinking of her face, the softness and severity of her freckled cheeks and serious pale green eyes. He remembered her soft, yet muscular body. He remembered the way she would smash him to the ground because of his impatience and stupidity, and then rebuild him with a laugh and a kiss. He was lost in these reveries until the heavy door unlatched and a swathe of light cut into the darkness. Didi and Joe, like a pair of old silent movie Nosferatu came in with a glint in their eyes. They had silent mockery in their faces. “It’s almost time for another game. But there aren’t many games left, Daniel.” Joe was a charmer with a huge repartee.

  “No one has ever called me Daniel. That’s not even my name.”

  “Sorry, Daniel. How about Corpse? Do you like that name?”

  “Not really. I prefer Dan but you could call me Edgar if you’re really getting bored.”

  “What about Dead? Does that suit you?” Didi looked better than Joe, but his jokes were just the worst. But Joe didn’t object. Joe cackled like a fairy-tale villain.

  “Would you like some food, Daniel?” said the shorter one.

  Both men had a faint accent that had been well adapted to English. He thought to say no, to swear at them, sending them back to Marka with hellfire. Then he thought of his escape. He would need energy if he was to make it anywhere, and right now he didn’t have a single ounce, his back aching and his face burning.

  “Yes. And some water please.”

  “You’re very polite for a cadaver. Your mother would be very proud of you.”

  “Likewise, I am sure. Let me guess. Your mother was the shower attendant at Dachau?”

  A hail of fists and kicks rained in at him, but there was nowhere to go. He slid down the wall into a heap as the rain lessened, and the breathing of his captors became laboured.

  “You still have a sense of humour? Tell more jokes. They seem to have hilarious consequences.”

  “No thanks, guys,” said Dan with bleeding lips. “My stand-up works best when I can stand up.”

  “You will never stand up again. Understood? Standing is finished for you.”

  “It’s the same with Golf. I’m done with that. I tried it once, never liked it. So I gave it up.”

  “Dickhead. This man is a dickhead. I don’t know why the big man wants to kill you. Being you must be punishment in itself.”

  “Hey, are you trying to cheer me up? It’s beginning to work. You’re good at this.”

  The man kicked at Dan again. His tone was sharp now, aggressive.

  “You will see us a few more times then we’re all done. Finished. Do you want any dinner, dead man?”

  “Yes. Remember.”

  “Okay. Then you must pay for it.”

  “With what? I’ve got no money down here.”

  “With a finger.”

  Dan blinked in the darkness. “You what?”

  They laughed. “Got your attention, yes? A plate full of food. A good English dinner full of carbohydrates and grease. You’d like that, yes?”

  Dan said nothing.

  “It will cost you a finger. You get to choose the finger, of course. It’s a pretty good deal really, don’t you think? I mean, it’s not like we are asking for a thumb.”

  Dan shook his head and spat some blood on the floor. “Get fucked.”

  “Look. In a while, you won’t need any of those silly little fingers ever again. So you take a little time by yourself and then you can tell us which finger you want to give us.”

  The other man spoke now. “Now, remember you said you did want a dinner. It would be very impolite now to change your mind. We’ll be back soon, Daniel. Tonight’s special is sausage casserole.”

  With sick joy, the two men walked o
ut of the darkness with enthusiasm bouncing in every step. As soon as the door was shut, Dan began to struggle against his bindings with the strength he had left.

  Fourteen

  As far as Jess could tell, there wasn’t a lot going for Dagenham. The A13, one of the two main roads that cut through Essex all the way to London, smashed eight lanes through Dagenham, several miles of which were all about flyover roads, retail parks, tower blocks and run-down areas of council housing. There were dead wastelands too, places between nothingness and rubbish dumps, areas between the roads which couldn’t be classed as Brownfield or Greenfield sites, just empty decay and waste. Poor old Dagenham. Jess had known about Southend’s poor reputation all her life, the white heels and handbag jibes about slutty Essex women with no brains and no knickers, and the classist knocks about the type of people who lived and holidayed in the town, but to live and die in Dagenham seemed a different kind of prospect altogether.

  They used the Sat-Nav GPS in Eva’s Alfa to find their way to the home of White Star Gazette international distribution centre. As soon as they passed the towering white wind turbines surrounding the flyover of the Dagenham A13, they saw it. White Star was a vast aircraft hangar of a building, part of a series of similar modern white behemoths sitting in a row, their roofs reaching the summit of the rising A13 as cars shot in torrents of 70, 80 and 100mph, hurtling towards the city centre 10 miles away. The red Alfa Romeo took a slip off the flyover, and dived into a maze of roundabouts and long strip roads cutting through a blue-grey concrete retail park. The sky was still blue, the air hot, with sunlight heat shimmering up from the floor. When they arrived near White Star in a traffic stream of cars, vans and trucks, there was no reason for them to notice the white Toyota six cars back in the middle lane. The Toyota didn’t follow them exactly, but parked in the next bay of spaces in the car park of a closed down sofa warehouse next to Whit Star. Others were using the sofa warehouse car park; fat businessmen in executive cars chatting into their mobiles while eating fast food, a couple of truckers doing likewise high up in their cabs, and there were a couple of cars which seemed innocuous enough. Eva looked at the white Toyota in passing, and something jumped inside her, but fell away again, dismissed by her tiredness. The feeling left her with the vaguest confusion, a little like déjà vu. She put it down to stress. Eva and Jess got out of the car. They said little now. They had spoken briefly on their approach through Dagenham and now had the slightest plan –not to use the main entrance if at all possible, just get inside and thoroughly check the most likely areas for holding someone hostage. This plan wasn’t much, but the decision gave Eva just enough sense of power to battle through the stress of three days of solid worry. They walked past the trucks, the executive cars, and the Toyota, feeling eyes upon them, but both girls had endured that feeling before. Especially when near trucks and big cars, the domains of men who felt safe enough to ogle with 100% invasive effect. Eva felt tension, but she dismissed it. Men stared. It was what they did. As they crossed the lane between the warehouse sites, a courier on a motorcycle was approaching. He was wearing the usual orange high vis bib with a company name, his visor was pulled down. He was heading towards them as they crossed the road, his motorbike heading into the straight of the road from a nearby painted mini-roundabout. He could see them and had ample time to stop, so Eva knew something was wrong. The bike wasn’t slowing. It jumped up a gear with a high pitch sound and more speed.