The Mercy Seat Page 9

  Father Jack smiled again. It was no less unpleasant.

  ‘Treating this Donovan like a punter in case anyone’s listening. Clever boy.’

  Si nodded. He hadn’t thought about that but it sounded right.

  ‘An’ then he gave him his mobile number. To contact him if there was any change.’

  ‘Regular chums.’

  Si laughed. ‘Yeah.’

  Si looked at Father Jack expectantly. Jack was frowning, seemingly thinking hard.

  ‘So what d’you want me to do?’

  ‘Keep an eye on him,’ said Jack thoughtfully. ‘And before he goes out, we’ll have words.’

  The tone of Father Jack’s voice made Si glad he wasn’t the one to be receiving those words.

  ‘Right.’

  Father Jack nodded. ‘You did good, Si. Very good. You’re a grand lad.’

  A flush of pride ran through Si.

  ‘Thank you, Father Jack.’

  ‘Good lad.’ Jack’s tone changed. ‘But if you disturb me again when I’m sleeping, I’ll cut your cock off and eat it while you watch.’ He rolled back on to the bed. ‘Now, fuck off an’ leave me alone.’

  Si flinched. He didn’t doubt it. He got straight up, crossed to the door, out, and closed it behind him. The sub-continental movement of Jack getting comfortable came through the wood.

  Si stood on the landing against the wall and sighed. Hard. His legs were trembling, threatening to give way.

  Well, he thought, that went quite well.

  He shivered.

  It could have been a lot worse.

  Night fell heavy around King’s Cross. Became dark in a way no streetlight could illuminate.

  Two worlds side by side, occupying the same physical but not psychic space, the station as interface. Feeding off and into each other. As day fell away, so, too, did its citizens. As night ascended, so, too, did its denizens. Remaining day-dwellers confined their journeys to below ground or the mainline station, only venturing above and beyond if they had to.

  Or wanted to.

  For this was the land of the hustle where everything was for sale. Sex. Drugs. Bodies. Minds. Hope. Futures.

  Razor capitalism. Animalistic consumerism.

  Sex and death. However they were packaged.

  Attempts at fashionable gentrification had been made, but their success was only short term. Long term, the status quo would reassert, erode the newcomers or consume them, like waves turning stone to sand.

  Dean stood in his usual spot. Against the blackened, brick side wall of King’s Cross Station on York Way, half in, half out of the streetlight, letting those interested know he was available.

  And there was always interest.

  He saw the same black Saab, third time now, turn the corner at the lights. Come towards him, slow down, then take off again before Dean could approach. Building up courage, Dean knew. He’d be back. And if he wasn’t? Didn’t matter. There’d be others.

  He felt the side pockets of his jeans. Bulging with notes. He moved his jaw, side to side, up and down. Beginning to ache. No problem. He was used to it.

  The buzz from his last rock was tailing off. Didn’t last long, anyway. He wanted a spliff, something to fuck with his head in a mellow way, keep the cold away.

  He put his hands in his pockets. Lonely without Jamal.

  But the cash compensated. And much as he liked Jamal, he knew which he would prefer to have with him.

  He looked down the street, waiting for the Saab to come round again, noticed a potential customer. A big, well-muscled man. Shaved head. Bag slung over his shoulder. He drew near, almost level.

  And Dean recognized him.

  ‘Aw shit, man,’ Dean said. ‘What you want now?’

  The man stopped walking, put his hands in front of him, palms up, like he was in an old war movie, surrendering.

  ‘It’s all right,’ he said, ‘I’m not here on business. I’m not going to ask you anything.’

  ‘Yeah?’ said Dean warily. ‘I told you I ain’t heard from Jamal. Don’t know where he is.’

  The man smiled. There was that blue tooth again. The one Dean couldn’t take his eyes off. The one that gave him the creeps.

  ‘That’s OK,’ said the skinhead. ‘I’m not looking for him any more.’

  ‘Yeah? Then what d’you want?’

  He pulled something out of his trouser pocket. A fifty-pound note.

  ‘I’ve come to see you.’

  Dean smiled, relaxed slightly at the sight of the money. ‘Well, that’s different, innit? Where d’you wanna go? You gotta car?’

  The man shook his head.

  ‘Have to be the hotel, then.’ Dean made to walk away. ‘Come—’

  ‘Not the hotel.’

  ‘Where, then?’

  ‘I’ve got somewhere in mind.’

  And there was that smile again. That creepy smile. Dean became uneasy. The fifty was waved in his face.

  ‘Here,’ Spooky Tooth said. ‘That’s upfront. There’ll be another one afterwards.’

  Dean plucked the note, smiled. That went a long way towards calming his fears.

  ‘After you,’ he said.

  Dean was led up York Way, past old warehouses turned into bars and nightclubs, down a set of narrow concrete steps towards the canal.

  ‘You got a name, then?’

  ‘Alan,’ said the man after a moment’s thought.

  ‘Alan it is.’

  Weeds, cans, needles and other detritus were strewn on the towpath and the embankment. Inner-city flowers. Occasional rusting shopping trolleys and bicycles rose from the water, looking in the darkness like ancient sea serpents, sunken cities. The overhead lights were bulbless, the walls graffitied and tagged. Under the bridge’s arch and beyond, shadows consumated furtive lusts. Rats scavenged around them. Dean knew the place, had used it before.

  ‘I know a good spot. Come on.’

  He led Dean away from the lights of the main road, the thump of the bars and nightclubs no more than a distant heartbeat. Derelict, half-demolished buildings fronted an even more barren part of the canal. Desolate. Deserted. Even the rats were absent.

  Alan led him into one of the old buildings. Dean shivered from more than the cold. The place had a bad atmosphere. Like something horrific had once happened there and the echoes could still be felt.

  ‘I like somewhere with a bit of atmosphere,’ he said, fronting, thinking of the other fifty-pound note, wondering what he would have to do for it.

  Alan smiled. Said nothing. Undid his belt, began to open his jeans.

  ‘Come on, Dean,’ he said. ‘You should be doing this. It’s what I’m paying you for.’

  Dean kneeled down before him, began unbuttoning. He found Alan’s already hardening penis, pulled it out. Felt along the shaft. Then stopped, gasping.

  ‘Fuckin’ ’ell, what’s that?’

  Alan smiled. ‘You like it? Ten millimetres thick. Three centimetres wide.’ Pride in his tone.

  Augmented by metal, it felt like some medieval instrument of torture.

  ‘Does that hurt?’

  ‘No,’ said Alan, a small note of sadness in his voice. ‘Not even when you pull it.’ He placed his hands on the back of Dean’s head, forced him forward. ‘So pull it.’

  Dean got to work. It was difficult. He couldn’t breathe through his mouth. And it hurt his fillings. Alan was shuffling about, too, which made it hard to concentrate. He was about to stop, say something, when the back of his hair was roughly grabbed, his head forced away.

  ‘What the fuck—’

  The words died in Dean’s mouth. Alan was before him, one arm restraining his body, the other holding a machete against his throat.

  ‘I was enjoying that,’ said Alan, ‘so this had better be worthwhile.’

  Dean had been threatened before, beaten up, even. But this was much worse. He was too terrified to speak.

  ‘You know I said I wasn’t here on business? I lied. Now, if you lie, something h
orrible will happen to you. Got that?’

  Dean felt like he couldn’t get enough air into his body. He tried to pull his neck away from the blade. Alan held him too tightly.

  ‘OK?’

  Dean nodded, whimpering as he did so.

  ‘Good. Now, where’s Jamal?’

  Dean said nothing.

  ‘I told you, don’t fuck with me.’

  Dean felt the blade deepen against his neck. His front began to feel wet.

  ‘Now, I’ve just broken the skin,’ said Alan, his voice calm and low. ‘If I keep pushing, I’ll sever your windpipe. And if I move it round to the side here …’ He demonstrated. ‘It goes through your vein. Or artery. Whichever. Doesn’t matter. You’ll die either way.’

  Dean sobbed.

  ‘Now, I’ll ask again. Where’s Jamal?’

  ‘Nuh – nuh – Newcastle …’

  ‘Newcastle? What’s he doing there?’

  ‘Dunno …’

  ‘What’s he doing there?’

  The blade began to bite again.

  ‘Donovan!’ he gasped.

  ‘Donovan?’

  ‘Yeah … Said he would be makin’ buh-bare money soon from someone called Donovan … Jamal … had a plan … he was … was excited …’

  The machete eased away from Dean’s throat. Alan relaxed his grip. Dean began to gasp down air.

  ‘I said it would be all right if you told me the truth.’

  Dean was down on his hands and knees. ‘Th – thank you … thank you …’

  ‘Now empty your pockets.’

  Dean looked up, confused. ‘What?’

  ‘Empty your pockets. Just the money will do.’

  Dean felt anger rising within him but reluctantly handed the cash over, hands shaking as he did so. Giving up Jamal was one thing, but losing his money …

  ‘Bastard …’

  Alan turned on him. ‘What did you say?’

  Dean had spoken without thinking. ‘Nothing … nothing … I’m sorry …’

  ‘You little piece of shit. Talking back to me.’ His eyes glittered in the dark, lit by a malevolent light, almost beyond human.

  Before Dean could say or do another thing, Alan was on him, the blade against his throat. Pressing hard.

  ‘Piece of shit.’ His eyes dancing to a mad, unheard tune.

  The machete was pushed further.

  Dean tried to scream.

  But had no vocal cords.

  Dean tried to think.

  But the blood had been cut off from his brain.

  Dean tried to breathe.

  But his windpipe had been severed.

  Dean tried to live.

  But he was beyond that now.

  The Hammer watched as the body floated for a few seconds then, weighed down by the breeze blocks and bricks it had been trussed with, began to sink. The last of the surface bubbles popped and there was nothing to indicate a body had ever been there.

  He had on a spare set of clothes, his soiled ones in the bag along with the machete.

  And his trophy.

  He sighed, his body returning to what passed for equilibrium. Back to Newcastle. Again. To step things up. Give proceedings a little push.

  This travelling was tiring. He patted the bag, heaved it on to his shoulder. Smiled his blue-toothed smile. But not without its rewards.

  A final check to see if he had left anything incriminating.

  Nothing.

  But then, no one would look here anyway.

  He gave the bag another pat and set off.

  Back to Newcastle.

  7

  When he closed his eyes, Gary Myers could see their faces. Amanda, his wife. Georgie, eight, and Rosie, five. Could imagine Amanda’s body next to him, the kids jumping on the bed, laughing and hugging them both, the Saturday-morning lie-ins that he always treasured when he was home.

  He imagined their faces sick with worry, their lives incomplete, and sighed in exasperation as rage, long fermented with fear and helplessness, bubbled within. Embryonic tears tickled and stung the corners of his eyes.

  He grabbed his right hand with his left, began to pull. Hard. And again. Grunting, growling as he did so. The chain links held. The pipe remained firmly planted in the wall and floor. The cuff dug into him, dredged deep into badly bruised flesh, rubbed and worked open wounds barely healed from his last attempt.

  He ignored the pain, kept pulling. Willed the iron pipe to come away from the wall. Rattled, tugged, groaned, screamed.

  And eventually lay, anger spent and new pain piling on old, panting on the floor.

  ‘It’s no good … you’re better off conserving your strength …’

  Gary opened his eyes. Colin sat at the opposite end of the radiator, slouched against the wall. John McCarthy to his Brian Keenan. Colin didn’t look well. Previously dapper, he seemed to have unravelled, given up. Dishevelled and unkempt, his deterioration seemed to be part of a domino effect; once one piece had toppled, everything had gone.

  Gary had almost forgotten Colin was there. When they exhausted themselves of each other’s forced intimacy, Gary would slip into a neo-fugue state, depart the real world; create an imaginary one in his head where he could go by himself or with his wife and children, get lost anywhere that helped him to cope with the captivity. He imagined that Colin, although he had never said, did something similar.

  ‘I know him,’ Colin continued, holding his arm awkwardly against his body, breathing carefully and with difficulty, ‘know what he wants. And we can’t give him it. So don’t fight it.’

  Gary closed his eyes, not wanting to see the absence of hope in his companion’s eyes.

  ‘I knew he was ruthless,’ Colin said dreamily, almost to himself. ‘And manipulative. But this … this is the act of a madman. Psychotic …’

  ‘Well, when we get out, I’ll see to it that he’s punished. Not only that—’ Gary laughed against the pain. ‘—but we’ll write the book together. Big advance, serialization rights, chat-show circuit, the lot. We’ll be quids in.’

  Colin gave a sad smile, the kind a terminally ill man gives when told that summer is only weeks away.

  ‘It’s a nice thought,’ he said.

  Colin closed his eyes, laid his back against the wall, slid further down.

  Gary did likewise.

  He didn’t know how long he lay like that; minutes, hours, days, even. Time had become a fluid and elastic thing, an untrustworthy and mockingly constant companion.

  He heard the first outside lock being turned, the bolt pushed back.

  Quickly he grabbed for his hood, started to fumble it on with one hand. The pain from his wrist was sharp and intense. He thought it might be broken.

  The door opened. Light flooded the floor, so strong and sudden it seemed almost biblical. Gary squinted. His hood was partway on to his head but not yet over his eyes.

  Two figures entered, closed the door behind them. The outside world was abruptly cut off. Miniature starbursts hit Gary’s eyes, like he’d been staring into the sun and blinked.

  ‘Hoods won’t be necessary, gentlemen,’ said one of the captors. Gary didn’t know which one; his eyes were still dazzled.

  ‘You letting us go?’ asked Gary, hope rising within.

  ‘In a manner of speaking,’ said the same man. ‘Decisions have been taken. Plans made.’

  Gary let the words sink in, the figures come into focus. The one talking was well dressed, a dark overcoat covering his suit and tie. The other one he had seen before. Big, bald and bad. Leather jacket covering a lethally muscled body. Tattooed knuckles.

  ‘Just you.’ The well-dressed man pointed at Gary.

  And Gary suddenly knew what he meant.

  His stomach flipped, his breathing became laboured. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words would come out.

  He sat up, tried to pull away. But it was no good.

  The bald-headed figure strode purposefully towards him.

  ‘No … no …’
<
br />   Heard a weak, whimpering voice, realized it was his own.

  Felt a hand grab his shirt, haul him up.

  Felt the pain in his wrist, ignored it.

  Saw the skinhead’s other hand pull back, curl into a fist.

  Thought of Amanda’s body next to him. Georgie, eight, and Rosie, five, jumping on the bed, laughing and hugging them both. The Saturday lie-ins he’d always treasured when he was home.

  Home.

  He saw the fist released, coming towards him. Saw the blur of a blue-jewelled shark smile. Saw the word flash quickly before his eyes: LOVE.

  Felt pain; sudden, intense, red hot.

  Then nothing.

  Jamal checked his disc again: still there.

  He sat on the edge of the bed, pulled on his trainers. Straightening up, he noticed how short he was of breath. How nervous he felt.

  This was it. The first step to a new life. In a few hours he would be five grand richer and hassle free. As soon as that disc disappeared, everything else went with it. The threats on his life. Punters who wanted to touch him. Father Jack and his plans.

  He had tried phoning Dean, just to see if he was OK, but kept getting just his voicemail. Probably let the battery run down, Jamal had thought, or off raving. Or lost it. Yeah, that’s it. Something like that.

  Jamal stood up, pulled on his jacket. Patted the minidisc player in one pocket, mobile in the other. He had checked obsessively to see if there was any message from Donovan. Nothing. Good sign, meant the meet was still on. Nothing from Dean either. But Dean was OK. Yeah, he would be OK.

  He gave one last tug at the front of his hair – getting nappy, needed a cut – checked his no-longer-box-white Nikes and made his way out. He was down the stairs with his hand on the door, when he heard his name being called. He turned. Si was standing in the frame of the living room door, smiling, 50 Cent shouting in the background about how drinking Bacardi made him a hard man.

  Get Rich or Die Trying.

  ‘Off out?’

  Jamal swallowed hard. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘Punter.’

  Si’s grin got wider. ‘Same one?’

  Jamal shrugged non-committally.

  ‘Must be fond of you. Want to adopt you, does he? Take you home?’

  Jamal turned, made a grab for the front door.