The evil and the pure, p.6
The Evil And The Pure, page 6
Clint greeted them and they responded neutrally. Kevin’s heart beat fast as Phials met Tulip in the middle of the room – “Angel!” was all he heard the chemist exclaim – and he struggled to control it, to hear, to function.
Clint was leaving but Phials asked him to stay. Kevin froze — that was unacceptable. “That’s not part of our deal,” he said through chattering teeth.
“So we’ll strike a new deal,” Phials smiled, gaze fixed on Tulip. “The more the merrier. Money’s not an issue. I’ve named my vice — name your price.”
“I don’t –” Kevin began.
Clint interrupted. “I don’t want to stay. Not my scene.” Phials tried persuading Clint to change his mind, but he was resolute. Kevin relaxed. Phials told Clint to drop by sometime, then Clint was gone, the door closed, the three of them alone, Phials already kissing Tulip, thick lips hungrily seeking hers, no speaking, soft moans, two desperate men and a frail young woman.
Kevin rounded Phials and Tulip, watching light-headedly as Phials’ robe slid open to reveal a long, firm penis. Phials was a viagra freak. Kevin had tried viagra but didn’t enjoy the falseness of it. Nothing compared with the natural erection he got watching his sister with another man.
Phials broke contact, stepped away from Tulip and removed his robe. Tulip stood with her hands crossed demurely, the way Phials liked. He launched himself at her, lips fastening on hers, fingers exploring, moving his lips to her chin then down her body.
Kevin focused on Phials, watching intently as the excited chemist worked a hand up under Tulip’s dress. He unzipped, freed himself, masturbated softly, not wanting to come too soon, a long night ahead, Phials capable of going for hours.
Kevin studied everything as Phials took Tulip in all the ways that her brother wanted to but never could, knowing this was as close as he’d ever get. Gasping, circling, telling them what to do, Phials grinning, letting Kevin direct him, Kevin undressing, gliding around the lovers as they writhed on the bed, imagining he was Phials, head exploding with the lights of desire, groaning as he climaxed, Phials taking control as Kevin slumped against a wall, disgusted, loathing himself, but already looking forward to the next rising of his flesh.
Several minutes later he staggered back towards them, taking control again, not meeting his sister’s tormented gaze, consumed by evil lust, sacrificing himself to it, burning on an incestuous altar of his making with a savage, sex-fired smile.
FOUR
Gawl McCaskey took a pew near the back of the Church of Sacred Martyrs and waited for Fr Sebastian to summon him. Staring with disinterest at stained glass windows, statues of Christ and the Virgin Mother, the stations of the Cross, remembering the stories from his childhood, reared a good Scottish Catholic, whipped if he couldn’t name all the apostles. He started growling to himself at the bitter memories. Fucking apostles. Who gi’es a fuck. Dead fucking saints — fuck ’em all.
His blasphemy didn’t worry him, even coming in a house of the Lord. Gawl believed in God but didn’t care. Suspected there was a devil but wasn’t fussed. Religion was for the weak and gullible. He was determined to wring all of the pleasures from this life that he could. Fuck whatever came next. Deal with it when he had to.
Gawl studied his knuckles — cracked, creased, stained, scarred. A labourer’s hands. Fighting hands. He had beaten men senseless with these fingers, built roads and houses with them, destroyed with them. A life on building sites and in pubs, laying blocks and breaking skulls. All his history there. Christ needed two rows of documentative paintings but Gawl could see every day of his past in the red lines and ugly lumps of his fingers.
Gawl chuckled. A woman two rows forward glanced back at him with a frown. He stared her down, grey eyes cold, smiling leanly. This wasn’t his patch. He didn’t want to draw attention to himself and sour the sweet deal he had going with Fr Sebastian, but if the bitch gave him grief, he’d grab her by her scrawny fucking throat and choke her within an inch of her life.
She looked down at her rosary beads. Gawl sneered. Yellow fucking hoor, piss the fuck off and take yer Saviour with ye. Resting his arms on the back of the pew, cherishing his minor victory, beaming around the church, master of the house.
Not many in attendance. Some old ladies at the front, the bitch near Gawl, a few men on their last breaths sitting alone, a couple of bored kids praying by a row of candles. Gawl felt overwhelming contempt for all of them. Anyone who needed a crutch like God was a hopeless case. Gawl stood alone, asked no favours, faced the world on his own terms. God and his angels, Satan and his demons, saints and sinners — they could all go fuck.
A middle-aged woman in tweed stepped out of the confessional. A long pause, then Fr Sebastian stuck his head out, checking to see if anyone else required his services. He spotted Gawl in the recesses of the church and his lips tightened, his face reddening above the white collar. Gawl started to wave but stopped — he’d be a fool to alert the parishioners to his relationship with the priest. Scratched his head instead. Parry disappeared back inside the confessional.
Gawl grinned to himself in the gloom, remembering Leeds, his introduction to Fr Sebastian Parry in a brothel. It was a gangbang. Parry stoned, naked from the waist down, sanctifying bread by dipping it between a laughing whore’s legs, passing it around a group of horny punters and giggling prostitutes, all partaking of the holy host, Parry deadly serious, praying for their souls, weeping for his own. Gawl refused the bread — he didn’t put anything in his mouth that had been in a whore’s snatch. He took Parry home afterwards. Thought about rolling him for the contents of his wallet, then thought again — the priest could be a profitable ally, ripe for exploitation. So Gawl fostered a friendship with the straying servant of God. Sober, Parry tried to avoid the brutal Scot, banned Gawl from his church, threatened him with hellfire if he didn’t steer clear. Gawl just laughed and kept sniffing round, waiting for Parry to fall prey to his weakness again, ready to lead him to another brothel, fix him up with heroin, protect him, escort him home.
They had it sweet in Leeds. Not long before Parry was dancing to Gawl’s tune, doing his bidding, slipping him names and addresses. Always repentant, floods of regretful tears, begging God for strength. But weak, unable to resist temptation, pleading with Gawl to lead him further into his ugly but scintillating world. Super fucking sweet until Parry was caught molesting a choirgirl. The priest was spirited away by his superiors, the scandal hushed up. Gawl thought his goldmine had run dry, that Fr Sebastian would be locked away in an isolated friary. He should have known better — the church always loathe to castigate one of their own, eager to forgive and offer stray sheep a fresh start.
Six years after Leeds, two months after his return to London (Gawl had lived here when he was younger, when he first left Glasgow), he heard a rumour about a crooked priest who was willing to act as a fence, a priest who accepted goods as payment, goods being female, young and willing to oblige.
Gawl thought it was too good to be true — it couldn’t be Fr Sebastian. Then he remembered one of the Christian tenets he’d had drilled into him as a bairn — God moves in mysterious ways. But Gawl didn’t. He moved directly, no fucking around. He tracked Parry down to Sacred Martyrs, worked his way back into the priest’s life, dangled drugs, women and adventure in front of him. Parry was reluctant (he already had a dealer and some seedy contacts) but he couldn’t resist. Gawl had been prepared to blackmail the priest but it never came to that. Parry was soon lapping like the junkie whorehound dog he was. Gawl triumphant. Yes, you fucker!
Rising, shuffling his way to the end of the pew, slipping up the side of the church to the confessional. Six-two, lean, tightly muscled, ginger hair turning grey, freckles, face scarred and marked by more blows than he could count, top half of his left ear missing, gnarly at the edges, chewed off in a fight many years ago. He was in his mid-fifties but had the build, stride and passions of a younger man. Chequered work shirt, dirty black jeans, heavy boots. It looked like he’d come from a building site, though he hadn’t worked on the sites since pairing up with Parry — richer pickings to be made in church.
Tucking into the confessional, closing the door, air musty, Parry’s face distorted by the thick gauze separating the priest from his sinners. “Forgi’e me, Father, for I have sinned,” Gawl chuckled. “It’s been fuck-knows how long since my last confession.”
“Don’t blaspheme,” Parry hissed. “This is sacred ground. Respect it or get out.”
“Don’t play high and mighty wi’ me, Father,” Gawl growled. “I don’t gi’e a fuck where we are. I’ll speak as I please, right?”
“Have you no fear of God?” Parry sighed.
“Away wi’ yer fucking god,” Gawl snorted. “Have ye a name for me? I’m low on cash.”
“I gave you money last week.”
“How the fuck long d’ ye think I could survive on what ye squirrel away?” Gawl laughed crudely. “Ye’d be a great man if ye was rich, Father, but as it stands ye’re only good for a few nights on the piss. I need a name.”
“But it’s only been three weeks since the last job,” the priest objected. “We agreed you wouldn’t hit too often, in case –”
“I know what we agreed,” Gawl interrupted sharply. “I also know I’m down t’ my last fiver and’ve been living within my means for the last fortnight, which is fuck all fun. My new motto — bollocks t’ budgeting. Gi’e me a name and quit yer fucking whining.”
Parry fell silent. Gawl let him mull it over, then said softly, “There’s a new girl at Kate’s.” He heard the priest stiffen. “From Yugoslavia, Bulgaria, some fucking place like that. Fourteen, slim, pretty, speaks no English. Kate’s keeping her for special clients, breaking her in slowly. She’s no virgin, but ye won’t have much trouble imagining she is.”
Parry shook, indignant but thrilled. “I take no pleasure from the corruption of the innocent,” he hissed. “My yearnings lead me down dark, lonely roads, but I’ve no wish to hurt, no desire to –”
“Save it for the big guy when ye die,” Gawl cut in. “It’s three hundred an hour. Interested or not?”
“Three hundred?” Parry gasped. “I can’t afford that.”
“Ye can once ye’ve fenced the goods I’m gonna get from the name ye’re gonna gi’e me,” Gawl whispered. “I’ll cut ye in for thirty percent, same as always. But we have t’ move quick, tonight, t’ get the money before Kate sells the girl on.”
“Sells her on?”
“Whores are like second-hand cars, Father. Traders like Kate buy and sell as the market dictates. The girl will be fifteen soon. She’s depreciating every day.”
“That’s barbaric,” Parry moaned. “It’s slavery.”
“You could buy her freedom,” Gawl said slyly. “Take her out of her misery, show her the light, install her as yer housekeeper.”
“Don’t mock me, sinner,” Parry snarled, a fierceness in his tone which was rare. Gawl paused uncertainly. He could control Parry most of the time, but when the priest snapped back it worried him. He wasn’t sure how to play it.
“Come on, Father,” Gawl said, soft this time. “D’ ye want the lass or not? I’ve told Kate ye’re interested, and she’s promised t’ hold on t’ her till the end of the week, but I need an answer t’night.”
A long, troubled silence. Then, meekly, “Fourteen?”
Gawl relaxed, confident again. “That’s what the girl says. Could be a year or two older — or younger. Good looking girl, Father. Not my type – I like ’em ould and hairy, like my granny – but for a man of yer refined tastes…”
A slow blurring motion on the other side of the gauze — Parry crossing himself. “We’ll burn in hell for our sins, McCaskey,” he whimpered.
“Aye,” Gawl laughed, “so we’d better make the most of the good times while we can, right? A name, Father. I can do it t’night, ye can fence the goods, take yer cut straight from the profits, be enjoying the lass this time t’morrow.”
Another long pause. Then, quietly, desperately, “Janet Adams. A widow of just three months. Lives in a small terraced house in Islington. Not much cash but lots of silver and gold trinkets. Her husband didn’t trust the banks.”
“Alarm systems?”
“I don’t think so but I’m not certain.”
“I’ll tread careful then.”
“If you wait a couple of days, you can do it while she’s out,” Parry said. “She goes to bingo every –”
“No waiting,” Gawl snapped. “I hit t’night.”
“But it would be safer –”
“Leave the safety lessons t’ me, Father. Her name and address — write them down.”
“Can’t I just tell you?”
“That’s not the way we do it. If ye tell me and I’m caught, I can’t shop ye t’ the police t’ get a reduced sentence — it’d be my word against yours, and we both know which way that’d go. But if ye write it out nice and clear…”
“You’re an evil man, McCaskey,” Fr Sebastian said bitterly.
“Aye, but I don’t pretend t’ be anything else. And as bad as I am, I don’t fuck children.” The priest flinched. “Now gi’e me the fucking address.”
Fr Sebastian sighed, asked God for forgiveness, then produced a pen and paper and started to write.
Gawl didn’t study the scrap of paper until he was on the Tube, surrounded by strangers, invisible in the crush. Unfolded it casually and checked the address. North London wasn’t his usual territory. Not sure whether he should case the house or hit it straight. He tucked the paper away, undecided, figuring he’d make the call when he got there.
Gawl could have taken the Northern line direct from the Elephant & Castle to Angel, but he had a social call to make first, fishing for connections, so he took the Bakerloo line to Picadilly Circus then walked to the League of Victoria, where he stood outside the lobby, gazing in at the receptionist and pair of guards, before crossing the road to shelter in the doorway of the building opposite. He watched guests arriving and leaving, killed time by trying to guess which were there for the Bush’s party and which were regular members. Enviously eyeing the women in their fine dresses, taking the measure of the men with them — strong, determined, resourceful. Men Gawl respected and feared. Men he wanted to work for. Knowing he was too old, too common, too blunt to ever be part of the elite inner circle, content if he could hover at the edges and be thrown a few scraps to keep him sweet in his old age.
He saw Big Sandy enter and depart. Didn’t know much about the giant, except he was Dave Bushinsky’s strong right arm, did the Bush’s dirty work for him, the sort of work Gawl could do if he had the backing of a boss like Bushinsky. All his life he’d been in search of a true master. He’d worked for many violent, powerful men in many cities – Glasgow, London, Berlin, Melbourne and Sydney during his Australian years – but always short-term, never taken into their confidence, always on the outskirts, expendable, unprotected.
For a long time that had been enough – he liked to boast that he was slave to no man – but secretly he’d always envied the likes of Big Sandy, Fast Eddie Price, Eyes Burton. They were part of a crew, they didn’t have to watch their backs every minute, always a lawyer on hand to bail them out of trouble and smooth things over with the police.
And now Gawl was getting old, slowing down, vulnerable. Still a tough son of a bitch, tear apart any fucker in London if he had a mind to — but for how much longer? What when his fifties became his sixties and his hands shook and his legs didn’t always support him and young wolves sensed his weakness and closed in on him? He needed a boss who would shelter him. The only alternative was a big score to see him through his twilight years, but big scores were the province of crime thrillers. Men like Gawl McCaskey didn’t rob a bank and see out their days in style. If they were lucky they earned enough to scrape by and found a safe haven where they could grow old quietly and die of natural causes. Most were denied even that, preyed upon by jackals and vultures, picked clean, left to rot in gutters and doss-houses.
Gawl would rather die than end up like that, begging for change, sleeping rough, shat upon by the world and all those in it. But he hoped to avoid death — his plan was to get in with the Bush or some other well-placed crook, work hard, earn the respect of his boss, stash away enough cash over the next decade to pay for a room in a retirement home. He’d been sniffing around since returning to London, but no luck yet. Had a good feeling about the Bush. He knew Eyes Burton, one of the Bush’s bodyguards, and thought that maybe Eyes could get him in.
Waiting patiently. Eyes was a chain-smoker, sixty a day. It was only a matter of time before he slipped out for a puff. On cue — the door of the club opened and Eyes slipped out, lighting up as soon as his feet hit the pavement. Gawl let him smoke the first fag and light up a second before pursuing him, calling as he crossed the road, “Hey, Eyes, those fuckers’ll kill ye.”
Eyes stared hard at Gawl, impossible to read since he always looked the same — pissed-off. “Gawl,” he muttered neutrally, dragging on his fag.
Gawl pulled up beside Eyes Burton and smiled his warmest. “Good party?”
Eyes shrugged. “What I’ve seen of it.”
“I expected an invitation. I’m disappointed.”
Eyes smiled thinly. “Must have got lost in the post.”
Gawl was nervous, trying not to look it. “How’s the Bush?”
“Mr Bushinsky to you,” Eyes said.
Gawl’s smile slipped but he ploughed ahead. “Have ye told him about me?”
“I’ve mentioned you.” Eyes sniffed. “He made enquiries. Heard bad things from Glasgow.”
“Ye cannae trust the fucking Scots,” Gawl joked, heart sinking, wondering how much those bastards had told the Bush, if he’d have to move on again.
“You’re not popular up there. You didn’t tell me.”
