by Owen Mullen
The sound of the door opening broke the spell. ‘Time’s up.’
She replied without taking her eyes from Monahan. ‘Keep your voice down. Show some respect, man.’
Kilburn High Road was quiet, a far cry from how it would be twenty-four hours later choked with Monday morning traffic pouring into the city centre. The distant sound of a church bell ringing mocked the thoughts in Bridie O’Shea’s head – bad thoughts, thoughts a good catholic girl should never have. That girl had died the moment she saw Wolf Kavanagh’s manly frame and lust quickened her pulse.
Light from the window streaked the counter Bridie had danced on after Wolf was in the ground and she was finally free of him. Wherever she looked, she saw Niall: at the bar polishing glasses, blethering with the regulars, mopping the floor before opening time like he’d done a thousand times or more and missing the half of it. Kavanagh’s was closed and would stay closed. More important issues needed her attention. If that meant losing customers or even the licence, she couldn’t give a tuppenny damn.
Bridie felt old and alone and close to tears. It wasn’t a day for port or stout. Today it had to be whiskey. She poured Bushmills into a tumbler and carried it through to the back room he’d called her ‘lair’ when they were on bad terms with each other. Shuffling the cards was a reflex, laying out a hand second nature. Old habits were the hardest to break. The Irishwoman had set hers aside decades ago, trading them for more lucrative ones in west London.
They weren’t lost, they were hidden, waiting to be rediscovered.
The Bushmills burned the back of her throat. She lifted a mobile from the table and pressed it to her ear. Luke Glass answered on the second ring. Bridie said, ‘Your request – I need five days but I can deliver. Colin Bishop would be wise to put his affairs in order. And just so you and me understand each other, Mr Glass, if you’re thinkin’ different, forget it. I’m havin’ him; he’s mine.’
In Little Venice it was too early for the boy with the fishing rod and not warm enough for ice cream and sunglasses. Like before, the branches of the weeping willow on the island traced lines in the water. Last time I’d been here I’d come to talk and was on my own. The cousins had had other ideas, drunk, gagging for a confrontation they thought they’d win. There would be none of that today.
Kenny Bishop hurried towards me along the towpath, his tall frame bent as though he was leaning into a gale-force wind. The Bridge House wasn’t open yet. Even from a distance I could tell he was sober. And worried. With good reason. What I’d given him on the phone was enough to get him to meet me. His reaction when I let him have the rest would decide whether I strangled him and dumped his body in the canal or let him go home for Sunday lunch with his wife and kids.
Kenny’s weedy face was flushed – not from booze, from fear. He’d reached the same conclusion and, without his cousin to back him up, didn’t fancy the odds. He slowed the final steps to walking pace, reluctant to come closer. The Bishops should have gold-star membership of LBC. They’d made it; they were rich. Fair play to them, being thick as shit hadn’t held them back. There was a moral somewhere in there but I didn’t have the energy to look for it.
Money changed people. Not Kenny and Colin. They’d started out inner-city boys and still were; the bar was set low at the club but not low enough for them to clear it.
Bishop swallowed and wiped his mouth with his hand. What I was about to hear had been rehearsed all the way from Primrose Hill. Now the moment had arrived, the script in his head went in the canal and he was going with ignorance as his defence.
His voice shook. ‘I didn’t know, you have to believe me.’
He was wrong, I didn’t.
‘Convince me.’
‘Colin was fine with your brother bossing south of the river. Nobody in their right mind would go up against Danny Glass.’
‘Rollie Anderson did.’
‘Yeah, and look how that turned out for him.’
I remembered.
‘Then you took over.’
‘And?’
‘Started…’
‘Started what, Kenny? Spit it out.’
‘Fucking about. Moving up west. Opening a club in the heart of the city. Col thought you were taking a liberty.’
‘What did you think?’
‘I told him it didn’t affect us one way or the other. Doing business with you made sense.’ He made a pathetic stab at reaching me. ‘Nothing gets in front of making money, right?’
Further along, a boat chugged towards us. In the stern, a middle-aged guy relaxed in a striped deck chair, smoking a pipe, reading a broadsheet; he didn’t look up. Kenny Bishop waited for it to pass by before he continued. ‘I thought he was cool with it – as cool as Colin is about anything. Until you called, I’d assumed he’d let it go.’
I kicked a grey stone into the water and watched the ripples disturb the surface. Kenny Bishop loosened a button of his shirt, preparing himself for the judgement that might signal the end of his time on earth. He scanned the steep bank beyond the trees, weighing whether he could reach the top before I dragged him down and finished him. It was a tough call. If I’d been a betting man…
I said, ‘Your version is it’s all Colin.’
He nodded.
‘Don’t much like him, do you?’
Bishop produced a rare flash of humour, brave in the circumstances. ‘Not true, he’s family. ‘Course I like him. Just don’t like him around.’
I stopped myself from giving him a round of applause. ‘Why should I take your word for it?’
His eyes danced in his head. ‘Because I’m telling the truth. Whatever’s going on, I’m not part of it… not part of any of it.’
‘Then you’re asking me to believe a muppet like Colin set the whole thing up. Without your help. Without you even suspecting. I was born at night, Kenny, but it wasn’t last night, you get what I’m saying?’
Panic flared in his eyes. ‘Somebody else must be in on it with him. Has to be.’
‘Sounds like you’re grasping at straws.’
A light came on and he saw a way out. ‘Luke, ask yourself who was keen to do business with you, to keep doing business. As far as I’m concerned, you’re an opportunity, not a threat. Why would I upset the apple cart?’
‘Then, who?’
He cast around for a name to fit his theory. ‘A new firm. Somebody under the radar.’
‘There aren’t any new firms. There’s you, Bridie O’Shea or Jonas Small.’
Kenny wasn’t so different from his cousin. When his back was to the wall, he lashed out.
‘My money’s on the Irishwoman. Don’t trust that old rebel bastard as far as I could throw her.’
39
The five days Bridie O’Shea said she needed were the quietest in a long time. Nina kept her distance; Charley moved back to her own flat and carried on running the girls at LBC as if nothing had happened: peace seemed to have broken out between my sisters. A temporary situation? Given their fiery personalities, maybe, but I’d take it.
George Ritchie was smart enough to quit while he was behind. He’d made his point. The dead man in the bedroom disappeared and didn’t get a mention.
No word from Stanford, though, for sure, he’d have breathed a sigh of relief when he heard a body had washed up near Battersea Park. Sixty people a year were fished from the Thames. Suicides or poor bastards out of their head on pills and cheap wine who got stuck in the mud at low tide and drowned when the water rose. This wasn’t one of those but I wasn’t worried – the policeman had a vested interest; he’d bury it in the stats.
Now it was ten to ten on Friday night. Light rain spattered the windscreen and, for the first time in months, it was cold. Summer was over. I was in Prince of Wales Road with Felix and Vincent across from Colin Bishop’s childhood home, the three houses he’d knocked into one, about to bring the whole sorry saga to an end.
Danny had been the gangster in the family; that was his trip. I’d do what had to be don
e and get back to being a businessman.
Further down the street a car pulled in and flashed its lights: Bridie had arrived. She rolled the window down to speak to me and I caught the hard Irish faces she’d brought with her.
I said, ‘Are you okay?’
‘Okay as I’ll ever be.’
‘Good.’
‘The funeral’s next week, once that’s behind me…’
‘I’ll be there.’
‘Don’t bother. You didn’t know him.’
A subtle reminder of my status. Tonight, we were on the same side. Tomorrow, that might change.
I said, ‘Leave it in the boot. It’s open.’
She pulled off a glove and took my hand. ‘It’s been a while, be careful. I’m out of practice.’
‘I will.’
‘Don’t forget our deal. I’d hate us to be fallin’ out.’
‘In the boot, Bridie.’
When Kenny Bishop left Colin’s place in a grey Mercedes, three men were with him. Taking the heavies guarding his cousin out of the picture was a smart move on his part: it meant he’d be alive in the morning. We climbed the wall at the back of the property, our footsteps cracking like thunder on the gravel. A security light burst into life and we stopped, holding our breath, expecting a guard loyal to Colin to come at us from the darkness with a couple of Dobermanns. It didn’t happen. After sixty seconds, the light went out and we moved on.
In the King Pot, we’d discussed where in the house Colin would be. Kenny, in his new role as Judas, had told us he spent the weekends in his den, watching blue movies, drinking vodka and getting wrecked on coke. It sounded too good to be true – Fortuna was starting to pull her weight.
Not before time.
The original plan had been to burst in, all guns blazing. A phone call from George Ritchie to Kenny meant that wasn’t going to be necessary – the basement door was open, another present to us from Cousin Kenny. He really didn’t like Colin, did he?
I took out my weapon – the one I’d almost shot Charley with – and climbed the stairs to the ground floor. The bastard was in an armchair facing away from me, the back of his bald head shining. On a large-screen TV in the corner, a group of naked men were enjoying themselves. Two lines of white powder waited beside a three-quarters-full litre of Absolut that would be dead come Monday morning. So would Colin. He didn’t know I was there until my shadow fell across the floor between him and the orgy, way too late to react.
When he looked up, I understood why – he was going for gold in the Out-Of-It Olympics.
His addiction was biting hard, the deterioration in him shocking to witness: his eyes were bloodshot, the dilated pupils like small planets in a very different face from the one I’d wanted to punch. Cocaine was an appetite suppressant; loose skin hung under his chin reminiscent of a pelican’s bill, his shirt so big at the collar it might’ve belonged to somebody else.
I wondered when he’d last eaten. Not that I gave a damn. At this rate, Bridie wouldn’t have to kill him. He was doing a great job of it on his own.
He left off from cutting another pile of powder. ‘Well, well, well. Look what the cat dragged in.’
I caught the front of his shirt with both hands and pulled him up out of the chair. When my forehead met his nose, they probably heard the crack in Canning Town. His features imploded. Red rain fell on the table, stippling the lines of crack, and Colin Bishop screamed.
He fell back already beaten, his face a bloody mess. I said, ‘Hello, Colin. Sorry to be a party pooper but you know how it is.’
‘You’ve broken my fucking nose, you bastard!’
I kicked the table over; vodka crashed against the fireplace and a white cloud rose into the air. ‘Since when are you bothered about your nose? I’ve done you a favour, mate.’
His eyes watered. He moaned and gingerly felt his face. ‘How did you get in here?’
‘Long story, Colin. Tell you some other time.’
Felix and Vincent pinned him against the wall. He stank of BO – his drug of choice really was the gift that kept on giving. I took what was left of his fleshy jowls in my hand and squeezed. ‘Give me what I’m here for and I’ll leave.’
‘Go fuck yourself, Glass. You must think I’m thick.’
He’d got that right.
Felix kicked his legs wider and gave him two to the kidneys. He cried out and slumped to the floor. I hunkered down beside him. ‘You are, Colin. ’Course you are. Thick as they come, now that you mention it, but I won’t hold it against you.’
He saw the gun, realising through the coke haze that his weekend wasn’t going to go quite how he’d planned it, and weighed my promise against what he knew about me.
‘I don’t have a fucking clue what you’re talking about.’
I stood. ‘See. Now you’re insulting my intelligence and that’s not nice. We can both admit that on your own you couldn’t find your arse with a torch. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. It is what it is. Last chance.’
‘And then you put a bullet in me?’
‘Don’t be so negative. Then you can get on with your miserable life. Look, I’ll make it easy for you. I already know. All you’ll be doing is confirming it.’
Behind his red eyes the wheels were grinding. His options weren’t great. Finally, he said, ‘If I tell you—’
‘I won’t touch a hair on your head. That’s a promise. And it’s the best deal you’re ever going to get. I’d take it, if I were you. Trust me, I won’t lay another finger on you. You have my word on it.’
He mumbled something.
‘Speak up, Colin, can’t make out a fucking word.’
‘It was Small. He hates you even more than I do.’
I patted his fat cheek. ‘Thanks, Colin. Nice doing business with you.’
When I came out of the room, Bridie and her men were waiting. She said, ‘Remind me to never play poker with you. I’d lose.
‘You don’t believe that.’
‘Let’s hope we never have to find out.’
As I walked down the hall, realisation arrived for Colin Bishop and he shouted after me.
‘Glass! You promised! You fucking promised!’
He was right, I had. And I hadn’t broken that promise. I wouldn’t lay a finger on him. At the door I stopped until I heard him scream. Colin would be doing plenty of that before his night was over. It couldn’t happen to a better guy.
But this is what I know: people are greedy; they can’t help it – it’s how they’re made. Sooner or later avarice gets the better of them and they fuck up. Jonas Small should’ve seized the chance I’d given him with both hands and held on. Instead, he’d turned against me. I’d tolerated his mad-arse chat, his patronising ‘Lukie boy’ crap, and his wife’s latest gems from beyond the grave.
No more. I was done.
It had stopped raining; the air tasted fresh and the sky over Brick Lane was clear. The nightmare was ending and it felt good. One more thing remained and I was up for it.
I left Felix and Vincent in the car and walked to the alley beside the Bangladeshi restaurant Small thought was Indian. A moggy foraging the bins heard me and scurried into the darkness. Jonas would’ve been wise to do the same. I’d come for him.
Light from the kitchen threw a vanilla rectangle on the ground. Inside, two men in chef’s whites spoke to each other in Bengali. They saw me and the talking stopped, glanced nervously at each other and raised the knives they’d been using to slice chicken breasts. My quarrel wasn’t with them. I pressed a finger to my lips – a language we all understood – laid a bundle of notes on the stainless-steel worksurface.
‘Put those down before somebody gets hurt.’
Uncertainty clouded their chubby illegal faces but they did as they were told. I pushed the money towards them. ‘Find another gig, guys. This place is closing down.’
The knives were professional steels, solid and heavy and razor sharp. I relished the damage they were about to do.
‘When
the police ask, you never saw me. London might look big. It isn’t. My men would find you in five minutes. Trust me, you wouldn’t be happy with how that turned out.’
They thought for about three seconds, scooped up the cash and ran.
Tomorrow they’d be unemployed. Better than being dead.
Small was sitting where he’d been the last time I was here, at the back, cleaning the fob his father had given him with a hanky. If it was possible, the grey and yellow king of comedy suit looked even more ridiculous than before, the salmon pink shirt underneath spectacularly at odds with the rest. I wondered if he was colour-blind and nobody had told him. When I came through the kitchen door, he saw the knives and his expression froze mid-mouthful. Behind the eyes, his brain processed the world of shit he was in and went with what he’d done all his days: he brassed it out.
Bad decision, Jonas.
Small pretended he was pleased to see me, though in his heart he had to know his time was up. But old habits died hard; he couldn’t help himself.
‘Lukie, boy! I mean, Luke. Belter curry tonight. Chef deserves a pay rise.’ He winked. ‘Won’t be getting one, mind you, but still.’
I grabbed his hand and flattened it on the table. He got what was going to happen, tried to pull away and failed. The blade passed through his palm, splitting the flesh as easily as it had cut the chicken breasts, and embedded itself in the wood underneath, the hilt trembling like a tuning fork.
Jonas roared against the pain. ‘You bastard! You fucking bastard!’ and was still shouting when I spread him low across the table like a medieval heretic and sank the second blade into his left hand. He screamed as blood from both wounds soaked into the tablecloth, the slightest movement bringing fresh torture. Small glared hate at me and started to say something that was drowned out when I twisted the knives.
‘No more, Jonas. All I want to know is why. What the fuck was more important than making money?’
‘Go fuck yourself, Glass!’
I took hold of his hair and smashed his face on the table; the gold filling came loose and fell to the floor as though his body was breaking up, one piece at a time.
