Marked men, p.6
Marked Men, page 6
When he started flipping Rowe onto his front, the other man put up some token resistance. But a knee in his back and a forearm across his neck pinned him in place as the tape went round and round both wrists. Once his arms were secure, he taped Rowe’s ankles together then bent the knees to bring the man’s feet closer to his hands. A few more rounds of tape and he was trussed up good and proper.
By now, Rowe had twisted his head to the side and was trying to focus on the man standing above him.
‘Good to see you again, Kev. How’ve you been keeping all these years?’
Rowe’s lips began to move, but only a low moan emerged.
‘Business seems good, Seen your van out there. Crazy Diamond – that were certainly you, back in the day.’ Hughes smiled nostalgically. ‘Crazy shit you did, hey?’ His voice hardened. ‘Like sending me down for seventeen years.’ He half crouched and wiggled his fingers at the other man’s face. ‘Crazy, crazy, crazy!’
Rowe winced, head moving back as if to avoid the words dripping down. ‘Jordan? Is that—’
‘Yeah! It’s me. Ta-dah! Back at long last.’
‘Please, Jordan. Undo my hands, fuck’s sake.’
‘So you do remember me?’
‘Of course I do. Let’s talk, yeah?’
‘Oh, we’re going to do that. And more. Come on, laddo. Let’s get you comfy.’ Jordan stepped round, hooked both hands under Rowe’s armpits and started dragging him into the front room. ‘Jesus, Kev, you’ve been piling on the pounds. All that pizza and takeaway food you order. Not good for you, that stuff. And you a football coach, too.’
Rowe began to buck and writhe. Then he started to shout.
Hughes suddenly released his grip. As Rowe’s face thudded against the floor, Hughes smashed his fist against an exposed ear. ‘Keep it down, Kev. Your poor neighbours don’t need to hear this. They’re trying to watch telly.’
Rowe was blubbering now. Tiny balloons of blood pressed out from each nostril, dribbles of it fell from his mouth as Hughes dragged him into the middle of the room. ‘Jordan. Mate. Please, please—’
Hughes held his finger to his lips. ‘Hush now.’ He waited for Rowe to get his sobbing under control. ‘That’s better. Now, lie still. Don’t want you thrashing about and hurting yourself.’
Jordan stepped over him, went out of the room.
Rowe stared across the carpet towards the sofa. There was a magazine beneath it. A remote and disconnected part of him seemed pleased. Last month’s copy of FourFourTwo. He’d been wondering where the bloody thing had—
The bang of cupboard doors jolted him back to what was happening. The terrible danger he was in. He tried to pull his hands apart. No good: whatever was wound round his wrists wouldn’t come loose. Jordan appeared, a bottle of Mount Gay rum in his hand. ‘This is nice stuff, mate. Smooth on the throat.’ He took a leisurely gulp. ‘Used to drink some awful shit inside.’
Kevin started to recall how alcohol affected the other man. How it used to light up his eyes, unmoor his brain, distance him from rationale thought. Jordan had done some nasty things when drunk. Kevin started to beg again. ‘Please, Jordan, for fuck’s sake. I didn’t want to do it. You know how it was. Anthony and Carl called the shots. They always called the shots. We just went along, didn’t we? With their plans? Just went along.’ By clenching his teeth, he managed to suppress the whimper at the back of his throat. ‘I never wanted you to be put away. I just did what they told me, Jordan.’
Hughes took another gulp and shook his head slowly. ‘Terrible lies, Kev. Awful to hear. Takes me right back to that courtroom, hearing you lying like that.’ He settled himself on the arm of the sofa, just to the side of the other man.
Rowe blinked a couple of times. ‘Think you’ve chipped a few of my teeth, mate. You know, Lee said he’d seen you inside. Strangeways, wasn’t it? Said he’d seen you, he did.’
Hughes nodded. ‘Yeah, Strangeways. I did see him there. I moved around a bit since then. Couple of years down in Bristol, a few in Liverpool. Then across to Hull. They bounce you all over.’
‘He told us. Said you’d said you were still coming for us. One day.’
‘And here I am.’
‘Jordan, you remember how it was. Swear down, I never wanted you to—’
‘Us?’
Rowe tried to angle his head so there was eye contact. ‘You what?’
‘You just said he told “us”. Who was that? The “us”. Who was that?’
Rowe nodded, eager to help. ‘Carl and Phil.’
‘You, Lee, Carl and Phil?’
‘Yeah.’
‘The four of you together?’
‘Yeah.’
‘What about the others?’
‘Which others?’
‘You know who, Kev.’
‘We hardly see each other nowadays. Did you think we all still run around together? Same as we did when we were at school? That’s all finished, mate. Years ago.’
‘What about Nick? Where was he?’
‘Nick McGhee? Not seen him in … fuck knows how long. He moved schools after … when the court case finished.’
‘And Anthony?’
Rowe swallowed. ‘What about him?’
‘Where’s he nowadays? I’ve been to a few of his places. Can’t find the man himself though.’
‘Anthony? He owns loads of property. All over the city.’
‘I know that, Kev.’ He took another gulp of rum. Licked his lips. ‘But where does he live?’
‘Ant? Well … you know his business, what it’s based on, don’t you?’
Jordan nodded. ‘We do talk to each other in prison, Kev.’
‘Right.’ Rowe paused. ‘He … he has people who work for him. What I mean is, Anthony, he’s someone you really don’t mess about – oh, fuck, Jordan. Why have you got that?’
Jordan looked down at the six-inch blade he’d slid out from inside his coat. He placed the bottle of rum on the carpet. ‘Carry on, Kev. I’m listening.’
Rowe swallowed loudly. ‘Like … like I was saying … fuck.’
Jordan had pushed up the sleeve of his army coat. A mesh of scar tissue covered the surface of his inner forearm. Thin welts, some recent enough to still be inflamed. The tip of the blade roved about, millimetres above the cicatrix. Jordan didn’t look up. ‘You were saying?’
‘Jordan, stop, will you? I … I can’t think straight, you holding that knife. I can’t.’
‘We were talking about Anthony.’ He crooked his arm and regarded the smoother flesh down near his elbow with something like affection. Then he pressed the blade into the skin. Kevin shrank back, but his eyes refused to break from the spectacle.
With the delicacy of a violinist drawing his bow across the strings, Jordan opened a red slit in his arm. Blood welled out from the two-inch cut. His eyes were closed. He could have been enjoying some music. ‘Had some nasty stuff happen to me in prison, Kev. Things too awkward to look back on. Except, I like to remind myself of them. Sometimes it’s the only way to feel … alive.’
Keeping his forearm up, he watched the blood as it trickled down to his elbow before soaking into the cuff of his bunched-up sleeve. ‘So …’ He announced with a smile, lifting his eyes to Kevin. ‘You were telling me about Anthony?’
ELEVEN
As the tram’s juddering screeches receded into the dusk, the clop-clop of commuters’ footsteps became clearer. The figures streamed both ways along the platform before dispersing in a variety of directions. Forefinger tapping against the spine of the notebook in his hand, Sean hoped a few would be returning to the apartment block he and Magda were standing outside. About a third of the building’s windows were still unlit.
Magda checked her watch. ‘Just after seven. Time we got started.’
They tried two buttons on the intercom before getting an answer. After explaining to the resident who they were, the buzzer went and they stepped into a silent foyer with muted lights. A shiny floor and marble-effect walls added to the sombre atmosphere.
While outside, they’d agreed to start at the top floor of the seven-storey building and work their way down.
‘Lift?’ Magda asked in a quiet voice, stepping towards a pair of metal doors.
‘It’s your funeral,’ Sean quipped.
She looked back. ‘My funeral?’
Sean waved a hand. ‘Crap joke. Lift being the less healthy option and this place feeling like a mausoleum …’ Her face was blank. ‘It’s just a saying. Kind of for when something’s bad.’
‘You want to take the stairs?’
‘No, not that many flights. The lift’s fine.’
Once in the confined space, Magda pressed seven and looked round as the doors closed them in. ‘So it’s my funeral. But you’re also in the coffin.’
Sean glanced at her as the floor jolted. ‘That’s just creepy.’
She widened her eyes and gave him a lunatic stare. ‘Well, I am from Transylvania.’
‘Now you’re scaring me.’
The first person to answer their door was a woman of about thirty. Once she’d examined their identification, they were ushered into a flat that was tidy to the point of obsession.
‘I don’t want to sound heartless,’ she said, reaching for a remote and turning some orchestra music down, ‘but the noise, some nights, can be a bit much, frankly. Not every night. I mean, they need to sleep like the rest of us, don’t they? But occasionally there’s bickering and arguing. During the week, it’s unacceptable.’
‘When that happens, can you see what’s going on?’ Sean asked, heading directly for the main window. A beige leather sofa was to his left. Smooth padding and an unfussy style. A couple of purple corduroy cushions made it look even more ripe for stretching out on. He wondered if it would be acceptable to ask where she’d got it: the apartment he was buying in Ancoats was unfurnished.
‘Not really,’ she replied, appearing beside him. They looked down to the arches. ‘It’s too high up here. I see them coming and going, but not much more than the tops of their heads.’
‘When you say they, does it appear to be the same people?’
She thought for a second or two. ‘Mostly, yes. Four or five, anyway. But they’re sometimes accompanied by others. They’ve lit fires in there, before. I’m sure the council could be more … proactive.’
‘Is it always men?’ Magda asked. ‘Who come and go?’
‘I have heard a female voice, too. If the gathering is a bit larger. I think her name is Frannie. Or Frankie. The man who she seems to be with is very tall. Towers above her.’
‘And last Saturday night, did you notice anything then?’
‘Not that I remember.’
‘Was it quieter or louder than normal?’
‘I don’t recall, sorry. Which – I suppose – could suggest it was quieter.’
Responses at the other flats were all very similar until they knocked on the door of a third-floor apartment. The man who answered was, Sean guessed, in his late twenties. Neat side parting, beard that had been allowed to grow bushy, neck tattoo peeking above a collarless white cotton shirt. A look that had become so stereotypical it struck Sean as slightly comical.
As Magda introduced them, he smoothed his moustache with heavily ringed fingers. ‘Yeah – funny you should say. I do a bit of sketching? For my Instagram page. I was that night: the view across to the arches? It can be a bit post-apocalyptic. A bit The Road. Cormac McCarthy?’
‘That slit-your-wrists film?’ Sean asked, without thinking.
The man’s perfectly manicured eyebrows tilted in disapproval.
Sean scrabbled for something else. ‘Yet thought-provoking, too. Good performance by what’s-his-name. The one who played the Ranger in Lord of the Rings.’
‘The film had its faults, but on the whole it was a good rendition of the novel.’
‘Lord of the Rings?’
The man looked even more horrified. ‘No, The Road.’
Sean looked helplessly to Magda. To his relief, she indicated with a hand. ‘Is that where you sit in order to sketch?’
He stepped back. ‘Yes. Come in.’
They entered a flat that, at first glance, appeared shabby. But Sean soon realized the distressed look was a careful construction. A conscious choice in design. Too many age-mottled surfaces and chipped corners. On the wall was a large circular mirror with an intricately carved frame. Wicker baskets formed a row on the floor. A bunch of enormous rusty keys hung from a hook on the wall.
The man approached a squat seat that looked like it had come from the cockpit of an old aeroplane. ‘So I sit here with the lights on low. Just this tiny reading lamp trained on my sketch pad. Often, I like to draw late on.’
‘How late?’ Sean asked, taking in an oval-shaped low table painted a shade of clotted cream. Where did he get this stuff? Maybe something like that would look alright in the apartment he was …
‘Oh, two, three, sometimes four. Depending on the image.’ He placed a fingertip on the back of the seat and, with the tiniest of movements, sent it spinning round and round.
‘And Saturday night,’ Magda said. ‘What did you notice?’
‘Right.’ He pressed his palms together and gestured in the direction of the window. ‘Good view across, no? I came through at about one in the morning and saw they had a little fire going. It was casting some amazing shadows against the back wall. Five or six people circled round it. Not doing much, drinking and chatting. A guy rocks up at maybe one thirty? Stumbling a bit. Marches in and I could tell he’s talking to them as a group. Arms waving and that? They go from sitting down to standing up. Then it gets into a bit of a stand-off, like the group want him gone and he’s not backing down.’
‘Did this group include any females?’ Sean asked.
‘Yeah, there was one with them. It soon gets a bit shouty: stuff starts getting chucked at him. I think he was hit by something because he comes back out, even more unsteady on his feet. He heads away, like he was off to try his luck elsewhere.’
‘You think,’ Magda asked, ‘he was looking for somewhere to sleep?’
‘No.’ The man frowned. ‘He didn’t have any bag or rucksack with him. The way he went in to start with, it was like he had a purpose. I’d say he was after something. Trying to score, probably.’
Magda didn’t comment.
‘But why chase off someone looking to give you business?’ Sean responded, gazing across to the dark and empty arch.
‘Maybe they had enough of him. It certainly looked like he was firing questions at them and they got pissed off.’
‘Interesting. Did anyone follow him?’
‘Nope.’
‘Can you give us an idea of this person’s appearance?’
‘I’ve got my sketch of him. When they drove him off, the situation was a bit Neanderthal?’
‘I’m sorry?’ Magda’s eyebrows were raised.
‘Cavemen?’
‘Oh, I see.’
He took a cloth-bound A4-size book from the small table. After a quick flick through, he presented them with an image. ‘See what I mean?’
Wavering lines of ink were interwoven into dense knots. Sean had to squint before he realized that the tiny patch of untouched paper at the centre must have represented the fire. The arch did look like a cave, spectral forms half-swallowed by the darkness within. There, at the edge of the picture, stood a lone figure. Male, perhaps. ‘Nice,’ Sean said, dismayed at the total lack of detail. ‘Do you remember what he was wearing?’
‘It looked like one of those coats you get from an army surplus shop. Big, heavy-looking thing. Not sure about the trousers.’
‘You thought, when they started throwing stuff at him, he was struck by something?’
‘Yeah.’
Sean was thinking about the cut above the eye of the man who’d claimed he was on his way to do some fishing with a friend. ‘And his hair?’
‘If he had any, it was cut short.’
‘Could he have been bald?’
‘Perhaps. He moved well; even though he was stumbling a bit, he was able to regain his footing.’
‘Height?’
‘Five-ten. Six foot. Something like that.’
‘And which direction did he leave in?’
‘Deansgate.’
‘Did anything else happen after that?’
‘If it did, I wouldn’t know. I crashed out at about two.’
Sean waited until they were heading down the stairwell to the second floor before he spoke. ‘I realize it’s vague, but that description fits the man who came past this morning.’
‘Army coat and short hair?’
‘Not just that. Our sketching hipster said he carried himself well. And he had a cut above his eye, which maybe came from something being thrown at him.’
‘OK, let’s assume it was him that night. And him again this morning. Is he searching for something?’
‘Something, or someone?’
TWELVE
Sean looked about despondently. The absence of any furniture made the room so much larger. As if, when he wasn’t watching, the walls had quietly retreated a foot or two. The house was now just an empty shell and, like an empty shell, it seemed a little bit sad.
He placed the cardboard box down. Aside from the crates and boxes of his stuff in the centre of the room, the fireplace was the only thing to look at. Blank walls. Skirting boards running from one corner to the other. He thought about the hours he’d sat with his mum in this room, the pair of them contentedly watching telly. Her nodding off and letting out the occasional snore.
The family who were due to move in had an adult daughter who had recently been diagnosed with multiple sclerosis. They’d made an offer substantially lower than two others, but he’d accepted it. When things flared up, she’d need the stairlift. It was nice to think that would stay in place. As would the wheelchair ramps at the front and back doors, and the waist-high wall-railings throughout the house.
