The bespoke hitman, p.14
The Bespoke Hitman, page 14
The door opened without a sound. He stepped into the hallway, only to be shoved roughly sideways, something hard pressed against the back of his head.
‘Hands high, scumbag! Don’t turn your head or I’ll blow it clean off your shoulders,’ a balaclava-clad Brian Ross hissed, slamming the door shut while keeping the blackthorn steel-knob pressed against Logan’s neck.
Logan raised his hands.
‘What’s this all about?’
‘Shut up.’ Brian’s free hand quickly searched Logan’s clothing.
‘I don’t carry a gun, if that’s what you’re searching for, mate.’
‘I’m not your mate, scumbag. Move slowly – very slowly – into the living room.’
‘What’s this all –?’
‘Shut the fuck up! Walk!’
‘Okay … easy … no problem …’ Logan began walking towards the enormous living room. ‘Look, see? I’m complying. Let’s not do anything foolish, or –’
Brian cracked Logan over the head with the cane. It made a horrible dull thud as metal connected with bone. Logan hit the floor face down, out for the count.
From a gripbag, Brian removed a smoothing-iron and a roll of duct tape. Expertly securing Logan’s ankles and wrists with the tape, he dragged him towards a large mahogany dining table. Satisfied, he found himself a comfortable seat, removed the balaclava, and began wiping the sweat from his face.
* * *
It wasn’t long until Logan – now bound and stretched out like a corpse on the dining table – started regaining consciousness.
Quickly re-hooding, Brian stood, towering over the drug dealer.
Regardless of his reputation, Logan’s face held the look of a man already at his sell-by date. Despite this, he gave an attempt at bravado. ‘Ever have one of those days when everything goes according to plan and turns out great? Yeah, me neither. Can I ask why I’m being tied up like this?’
‘You’ve heard of waterboarding? This is the Irish equivalent. Ironing-boarding. I ask the questions; you supply the answers. I want you to tell me everything about the murder of Jim McCabe.’
‘Jim Mc … oh, you’re going by all the bullshit in the Sunday Truth. Right? Top drug dealer arrested, blah blah blah, suspected in murder, blah blah blah.’
‘You’re just a poor scapegoat?’
‘Scapegoat and usual suspect when the cops and that shitty rag want to make it look like they know something. Helps convince the gullible public that they’re getting their money’s worth, and they can sleep peacefully in their beds at night.’
‘Cut to the chase.’
‘There is no chase to cut to. The cops know I had nothing to do with any murder. I’d never even heard of Jim McCabe until they arrested me a few days ago and mentioned his name. It’s not the first time they’ve tried to set me up for someone else’s dirty deeds, despite all the backhanders they take from me. That’s why they had to release me this morning on bail, on a lesser charge of possession of marijuana.’
‘If that’s your final answer, don’t say you weren’t given the chance to come clean.’ Brian inserted the smoothing-iron plug into a socket on the wall, then slapped a patch of duct tape on Logan’s mouth.
‘Hmummmpppppppppppppphhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!’
Brian turned the iron’s dial up to full blast. A few seconds later, he spat onto its smooth metal face. The spittle sizzled and fragmented into marbleised spheres before skating off the hot metal edge.
‘Perfect. Time to iron out all those wrinkles in your story and ballbag.’ Resting the iron on its side, he reached over and unbuckled Logan’s belt, pulling down his jeans.
‘Hmummmpppppppppppppphhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!’
‘Very kinky. Commando and Brazilian, eh? Well, by the time I’m finished with you, you’re going to have a ballbag smoother than a baby’s arse to go along with your pampered cock.’ Brian brought the heated iron perilously close to Logan’s exposed balls.
Logan’s eyes widened in horror. He wriggled frantically, trying to snake free, but the restraints tightened their grip.
‘Hmummmpppppppppppppphhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh hhhhhhhhhhhh!’
‘Sorry, I don’t understand a word you’re muttering. Now, where was I?’
The tip of the iron touched Logan’s ballbag. Logan jerked stiffly, as if hit by bolts of electricity.
‘Hmummmpppppppppppppphhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!’
Brian violently pulled the duct tape off.
‘Ready to talk?’
‘Fuckkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk! My balls are on fire, you fucking maniac!’
‘That’s right. I am a fucking maniac. Now, if you didn’t murder Jim, who the hell did?’
‘How the fuck would I know? I’d nothing to do with it.’
‘Have it your way.’ The tip of the iron touched the ballbag again, this time for a longer period.
‘Arghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh hhhhhhhhhhhh! Fuckkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk!’
‘You get one last chance before I turn your cock and balls into an Ulster fry of sausage and black pudding. If this doesn’t work, I have gunpowder and touch paper left over from Halloween. I’ll fill the eye of your cock with the gunpowder and touch paper and light it up like a firework. Now, for the last time, who murdered Jim?’
Logan’s face was raw. He was perspiring terribly. ‘I … I can’t give you an answer to something I … know nothing about! For fuck’s sake, you … you’ve got to believe me! Think … think I want my balls fried or dick blown off? I’ve tons of money. Name … name your price.’
‘I wouldn’t touch your filthy money with a barge pole. I hate drug dealers, what they do to kids.’
‘I don’t sell to kids. That’s a fact.’
‘A drug dealer with a conscience?’
‘I … only sell blow to university students, teachers, hippies … people of that nature and inclination. Nothing heavy. No H or coke, none of that heavy-calibre crap. All that shit in the papers about me? That’s all it is. Shit and lies.’
‘Shit and lies? Yeah, I can see that from your humble abode and humble lifestyle.’
‘Okay, I make a few quid on the exporting side, but that doesn’t make me a bad guy. I’ve a good heart. I help the homeless; I give to charities. I can tell you’re not a bad guy, either. You don’t want to kill me. You’re wearing a balaclava. You want to walk out of here without me recognising you. Right?’
‘Shut the fuck up!’
‘I don’t believe in violence, either. I’ve never used it in my life.’
‘Well I have, and I’m about to re-commence if you don’t come up with an answer.’
‘Look … all I know … one of my cop insiders told me there was speculation about a certain scumbag being robbed in that bank robbery, the Bank of New Republic. You must have heard about it?’
Brian felt his ribcage tighten. Skin began tingling.
‘Go on … what about it?’
‘Ever hear of Seamus Nolan?’
‘Nolan …? Don’t think so.’
‘Just Google his name. If you’ve ever had a nightmare, he was probably in it. A real psycho and a leading member of the Brotherhood.’
‘Brotherhood …?’ Brian felt a chill on his neck.
‘Three things in life always lead to the grave: God, undertakers – and Nolan. One of their top killers. Takes no prisoners. Does all the Brotherhood’s nutting – hence the nickname, Nutty Nolan. Apparently – and I can only go by my cop contact – he was inside the Bank of New Republic when it was hit by the robbers.’
Brian’s knees suddenly rubberised. The balaclava seemed to be tightening, suffocating him. He was finding breathing difficult.
‘It gets better,’ continued Logan. ‘They robbed Nutty of a load of cash. Then had the audacity to slap him about. Fuck, how I cheered when I heard that. I had a couple of run-ins with him, in the past. A couple of years back, he shot me in the knee, and exiled me out of Belfast. Said if I ever came back, he’d personally shoot me in the face and watch me leak to death.’
‘Leak to death …?’
‘He’s that kind of psycho. As sharp as a beach ball, and there’s more brains in a Halloween mask, but he’s relentless. Like the Terminator with a Duracell battery shoved up his arse. Just keeps coming for you. Shit, for all I know, he’s looking for me now, now the cops and media have blown my cover that I’m back living in Belfast. Which begs the question, how the hell did you know where I was living?’
‘The local BBC released it when you were arrested. Then you got bail this morning. I waited all day in the pissing rain, to see if you’d show up. That’s how badly I wanted you.’
‘You’re talking past tense. I like that. Shows positive thinking for the future.’
‘Don’t bet on it. You’re far from off the hook. What … what else did the cops say about the robbery?’
‘There were three robbers. I would say this poor bastard Jim was the first to be hunted down by Nutty. The guy was horribly tortured, they say. Another of Nutty’s calling-cards.’
The room span into a queasy vertigo. Furniture was dancing in slow motion. Brian sat down on a large Victorian armchair, wishing this was all a bad dream. No bank job. Jim still alive. No psycho who likes to watch people leak to death, searching for him.
‘If I were one of the lads who robbed that bank?’ Logan said, staring into Brian’s eyes. ‘I’d make sure I was armed to the teeth. At least give myself a fighting chance when Nolan comes a-knocking. And a-knocking he will come, make no mistake about that.’
Brian was trying to kick-start his brain into gear, weighing up the pros and the cons.
‘What if these lads didn’t have guns?’
‘Forgive the pun, but I could fix that in a shot.’ Logan’s eyes started dancing with hope. ‘Any weapon, any shape, size or weight – I’m your man with a plan.’
‘Thought you said you didn’t believe in violence?’
‘I … well … I don’t, but I’m not a fool. In my business, I have to protect myself against those who do believe in violence. Everyone has the right to defend themselves, especially against a nutter like Nutty.’
‘And I’m supposed to trust you?’
‘At the moment, I may be dangling by my balls, but you’re dangling by a thread. Necessity outweighs trust. So, what do you say about our newly formed alliance?’
‘I’ll have to give it some thought.’
‘While you’re thinking about it, any chance of pulling my pants up? It’s getting awfully chilly in here, stretched out naked with my cock and balls exposed. Being watched by a man with a sock over his head is also pretty unnerving.’
Chapter Twenty-Four
‘Morning, gentlemen. Nice day for a murder.’
Rocky Sullivan, Angels with Dirty Faces
Billy ‘Goat’ Butler sat waiting in the driver’s seat of the car, lapping up the rare piece of Belfast sunshine that was beaming through the windshield.
In all honesty, the driver’s seat was the last place Billy should have been sitting, having suffered from narcolepsy since he was a teenager. It was a dark secret he kept from everyone, despite the long list of near-disasters he had had as an active volunteer in the Brotherhood for Irish Freedom, many moons ago.
Three times he had fallen asleep while making bomb components, almost blowing himself and everyone within a mile radius into an early grave. He finally decided to seek medical help, but only after falling asleep on his most important mission: to blow up the British Ambassador on a lonely rural road, using a hidden command wire leading to a 200-pound bomb hidden inside a culvert.
Camouflaged in a leafy hillside in south Armagh, waiting in ambush in the early hours of a Sunday morning in July, he fell into a state of zombie-like unconsciousness. While in the land of nod, a stray mountain goat arrived on the scene and chewed through the command-wire hidden in the grass, saving the ambassador’s arse and giving Billy the moniker of a lifetime.
Thankfully, the medication now available to him was working miracles, keeping him awake for hours on end. The only side-effect was that sometimes it left him jittery and excited, with the occasional outbursts of mad laughter when he was feeling nervous or under stress.
Normally, he loved his cushy job, chauffeuring pampered Stormont oligarchs and their families wherever their dear hearts desired, be it to their favourite restaurant, drinking den or bingo parlour. However, this particular member always made his stomach flutter like a cave full of nervous bats. Not that Billy had anything to hide, especially anything hinting towards insubordination or free thought. God the night, no! Perish the thought.
Suddenly, someone tapped sharply on the car’s window, unsettling Billy’s already unsettled soul and stomach. He made an attempt to get out of the car to open the passenger door, but it was too late. Seamus Nolan had already seated himself in the back.
‘Afternoon, Seamus.’ Billy forced a smile. ‘Not a bad day for the first day of November, eh?’
Nolan, ignoring both the greeting and Billy, opened a copy of the Andersonstown News. Began reading.
Dear God, this is going to be one hell of a long journey, with Darth Vadar lurking in the back. Billy eased the car out of Nolan’s driveway, and headed south for Dundalk, taking the back-roads less travelled for security reasons, to avoid running into roadblocks.
The journey was long, and silent and unpleasant. A few times, Billy thought he could feel Nolan’s interrogatory eyes drilling into the back of his skull, as if searching for his most oily thoughts.
An excruciating hour later, they reached their destination – an abandoned one-time church nestled in a desolate wooded glen. The gothic structure rested silently, like a disease yet to be discovered, in the middle of a graveyard of abandoned husks of rusted cars.
Billy had been here a few times before. It never failed to give him the creeps. Like the house in Hitchcock’s Psycho. Regardless of how he tried, he could never erase other church smells and their associations from his memory: the faded aromas of candle grease, rotted pews and dried-out varnish from confessionals.
And this place was another confessional, one where false confessions were forced from mouths, where hope was destroyed and prayers were rarely answered. A place with only two consequences: the dreaded ‘six pack’ – shot in both ankles, knees and elbows – or the more final and absolute OBE – one in the back of the ear.
Nolan exited the car; stood pensively, as if taking in the sun’s warmth.
‘Finished with your Andytown News, Seamus?’ Billy asked, sticking his head out the window.
‘Take it.’ Nolan replied disdainfully. He walked off in the direction of the church, much to Billy’s relief.
With Nolan out of sight, Billy stretched over the seat, grabbed the local newspaper and quickly exited the car. His stomach rumbled a warning. He farted, loud and watery. Prayed he hadn’t shat himself in the shadow of the church.
Desperately bursting to take a shit, but somewhere out of the way, he ventured up an old pathway, covered in a jungle of weeds. That’s all he’d need – Nolan literally catching him with his trousers down.
He headed around to the back of the church, to a nice wee spot he had used before, to fertilise the sacred ground, so to speak.
* * *
Inside the old church, Nolan walked to the middle of the bare floor, a cowl of darkness flowing over him, like the notorious Dominican, Alonso de Hojeda, the Brother of Death.
A table and a family of five chairs dominated the floor, and a crew of sombre-looking men occupied four of the chairs, their sharply curving shadows seeming super-real in the tangible tension.
Nolan sat down in the fifth chair, without offering or accepting a greeting.
Above in the apse, abandoned icons of wide-eyed angels and peeling-faced saints looked down on the gathering with a mixture of curiosity and anxiety. A cloying smell of something long dead mixed with the redolent stench of animal excrement and urine.
‘Never thought you’d have the balls to return to Belfast, wee Mickey,’ Nolan finally said, his eyes drilling into the face of a pale and shattered-looking Mickey Harrison.
‘I had to get back home … no matter what.’
‘Wasn’t very smart of you, getting a black taxi from the airport, two nights ago, was it? We have plenty of people driving those. Surely you knew we’d hear about it?’
‘I didn’t care. I needed to get home, as quickly as possible.’
‘Your touting put good men and women in jail. Wrecked families. The repercussions of your treacherous acts are still being felt to this day. Suicides, drugs, depression, to name a few.’
‘I never touted. No point in saying I was set up, Sean, and totally innocent, is there? You wouldn’t believe me, anyway. My mum … she’s dying … cancer … That’s the reason I came back.’
‘Sorry to hear that. Fiona was a good republican. A good supporter, until you fucked things up. Then it became personal with her, hating us for something you did. How long’s she got?’
‘A few months at most. All I’m asking is to be at her side, when she dies. Then … then you can shoot me, if you want. I’ll not run. I’ll hand myself over to you.’
‘I doubt that.’
‘I swear to God I will! I will, Sean. I will! I’ll do whatever you –’
‘Calm down. You’re not going to be shot. Okay? You’ve got my word on that. Besides, those days are over. You can thank your lucky stars and the Good Friday Agreement for that. Not forgetting Conor O’Neill, of course. He seems to be very concerned about getting you back to Belfast in one piece. He has a soft spot for you, apparently. Why’s that?’
Mickey shrugged. ‘Don’t know.’
‘If you had something on O’Neill, of course, I would be extremely interested to hear it. It would be beneficial for you, also.’
‘I … I hardly know him. I’ve never met him.’
