Justice for the Damned
For Clare
Bryan Reynolds examined the tools of his trade – torch, plastic handcuffs, duct tape, Stanley knife, stun gun. He weighed the knife in his hand, extended the blade and thumbed its edge. He gave a little nod of satisfaction. The razor-sharp blade would easily slice through skin, muscle and cartilage all the way to the bone if necessary. And it would be necessary, although not right away. The first cuts would be shallow, designed more to inflict mental rather than physical pain. He was going to take his sweet time with Edward Forester. Kill him slower and harder than he’d ever killed anyone before. A barely visible tremor passed through Bryan’s hands. Uncertainty wrinkled his scarred, wolfish face. In all the years he’d been in this game, he’d never known his hands to tremble before a job. But then again, this wasn’t a job. This was personal.
Bryan’s uncertainty deepened into a frown. Personal. He didn’t like that word. Personal clouded your judgement, made you do things you wouldn’t normally do. Personal got you caught and banged up for life.
He watched the burly skinhead in the passenger seat load bullets into an Olympic .380 BBM starter pistol, a real cheap and nasty piece of shit with no long-range accuracy, but enough close-range punch to put a man down. The pistols could be legally bought for a hundred quid, easily converted to fire live ammo, and sold on for five hundred quid. In recent years he’d made a nice little side profit trading them.
A thought came to Bryan:
You don’t need to do this yourself. Why not have Les call a couple of the lads, let them dispose of Forester?
The question originated from the cool, calculating part of his brain that had served him so well throughout his criminal career, keeping him wealthy, healthy and free when most of his peers were dead or doing time. He knew he should listen to it, after all he’d been insulated from the hands-on side of the business for several years now. But another voice leapt up in opposition, a voice burning with irresistible rage.
You know why not! How can you even ask that question after what that piece of puke did?
The trembling in Bryan’s hands grew more pronounced.
He closed his eyes and sucked in the cool night air, trying to douse the fire in his head. Instantly, his mind conjured up images of his son Mark – not as the man he was now, but as the child he’d been fifteen years ago – and Edward Forester. The politician’s hands were all over Mark, touching, groping, forcing. His own hand reached out unconsciously and his fingers dug into the dashboard until his knuckles were as white as his face.
‘Let’s do this.’
The words hissed through Bryan’s teeth. He got out of the car, closing the door quietly, leaving it unlocked lest they needed to make a quick getaway. With Les following, he approached a red-brick, bay-windowed semi. The lights had been off in all the windows for an hour or so – more than enough time for the house’s occupants to fall asleep. Les tapped Bryan’s shoulder and pointed out an alarm box beneath the eaves. Bryan nodded without concern. He knew from experience that most people didn’t bother to activate their burglar alarm before bed. And if the alarm did happen to be on, well, he had plenty of ways to convince Edward to deactivate it.
They made their way down the side of the house, stepping softly. A motion-activated security light clicked on, revealing a well-tended rose garden and a black Range Rover. They scuttled beyond the halogen glare and froze against the wall, alert for any sign that their presence had been noticed. The light went out. A minute passed. Nothing. They crept to the back door, pulling on balaclavas and latex gloves. The balaclavas weren’t for Edward’s benefit. Edward was soon to be dead, so it hardly mattered if he saw their faces. But Edward wasn’t the only person in the house. There was also his wife. What had that crazy bastard Jim Monahan said her name was? Philippa something or other. It didn’t matter. What mattered was that Bryan had promised Jim he wouldn’t hurt her. And for once it was a promise he intended to keep – at least up to a point. Of course, if she gave them any trouble they’d have to slap her around a bit until she cooperated. But they’d take care not to do any permanent damage.
Bryan switched on his torch and directed it at the door’s lock. It was a simple Yale pin-and-tumbler of the kind he’d learned to pick long ago in his misspent youth. He inserted a slender torque wrench and a pick into the keyhole. He felt for the pins with the pick’s upturned end, lifting each of them in turn. Once all the pins were raised, he gently turned the wrench and the lock clicked open. He gave Les a self-satisfied glance, which said,
Once you’ve got it you never lose it.
He taped the lock open – it always paid to have a guaranteed escape route.
As they stepped into a small utility room, a motion sensor in the corner of the ceiling blinked red, but the alarm didn’t go off. Bryan gave an internal shake of his head. If the alarm had been on, Edward and his wife would at least have had a chance to defend themselves, however futilely. As it was, they’d be bound and gagged before they even knew what was happening. Bryan’s own pad had a state-of-the-art alarm system that he never failed to activate before heading to bed. He also kept a machete and a samurai sword within easy reach. He would have kept a gun, too, if it wasn’t for the fact that his criminal record prevented him from getting a licence. And he wasn’t stupid enough to keep an unlicensed gun in his house, not with the coppers constantly trying to sniff out any old excuse to put him away.
Bryan padded upstairs, stun gun at the ready. A heady, almost intoxicating rush coursed through him. It’d been a long while since he’d felt the tingle of adrenalin, the heightened sense of being alive it gave. He realised suddenly how much he missed operating at the sharp end of the business. To look into the eyes of someone utterly at your mercy. To see them stripped bare of all their shallow pretensions of toughness. To know what was in their soul. Nothing could beat that feeling. In his time he’d gone to work on some of the so-called hardest criminals in South Yorkshire. Most of them hadn’t lasted more than ten or fifteen minutes before they broke down. A few had held out for hours. But in the end all of them had blubbed and begged for their lives. A politician like Edward Forester probably wouldn’t last five seconds. But Bryan hoped otherwise. It was so much more satisfying if they didn’t fall to pieces too easily.
He eased open a door at the top of the stairs and frowned. An hour or so ago he’d watched the final light in the house go out. By his reckoning it had come from the window of this room. He’d expected to find Edward and his wife asleep in there, but the double bed opposite the doorway was unoccupied. A tiny shiver darted up his neck. Suddenly something didn’t feel right. He motioned for Les to check a door on the opposite side of the landing. As Les twisted the handle, an electrical crackle came from behind Bryan. The instant he heard the familiar sound, he realised he’d made the biggest mistake of his life by setting foot inside the house. He just had time for a sharp intake of breath. Then it was as if he’d been grabbed and shaken by a gorilla. He collapsed to the carpet, twitching and spasming, knowing that this time he was the one on the wrong end of a stun-gun charge.
Through tear-blurred eyes Bryan saw Les jerk around, Olympic .380 in one hand, torch in the other, throwing ghostly shadows around. A baseball-bat-wielding figure emerged from darkness behind Les. The bat came down with bone-shattering force on his wrist, sending the gun thudding to the floor. He cried out. The next blow connected with the top of his skull, dropping him unconscious. But the figure wasn’t finished. He rained down blow after blow on Les’s head, producing a stomach-churning sound like a watermelon being pulped.
‘Fuck’s sake, that’s enough.’ The speaker was male with a thick local accent. Stun gun in hand, he stepped over Bryan and shone a torch at Les. Blood was seeping through the skinhead’s balaclava. ‘Look at the mess you’ve made. Mr Forester’s not going to be best pleased when he sees that, is he? How’s he supposed to explain that to his wife?’
‘I’m sure he’ll think of something. He lies for a living, doesn’t he?’ This came from a third man out of Bryan’s line of sight. The voice was as hard and blank as a slab of stone, without any hint of an accent.
The landing light came on, giving Bryan his first good look at their assailants. The man with the baseball bat was thirtyish, well over six feet and built like a steroidal weightlifter. His neck had been all but swallowed up by ridges of shoulder muscle that made his shiny bullet head appear undersized. He was clean-shaven, with a petulant mouth, blunt nose and heavy-lidded eyes. Bryan recognised in those features the same brutish sensuality that ran through the veins of many of his own goons, men like Les who had a hard-on for inflicting pain. The man with the stun gun was much older, maybe fifty or fifty-five. He was a good foot shorter than his colleague and paunchy, but his shoulders were equally broad, making him appear almost as wide as he was tall. A greying goatee gave the illusion of a chin to his craggy, hard-drinking face. Watery eyes peered out from between red-rimmed pouches of flesh. The third man’s age and height fell somewhere between that of his accomplices. His head was squarish, his face broad and flat, with a boxer’s nose, blue-black stubbled cheeks and a monobrow. His eyes were equally dark – or rather his right eye was, the left was covered by a wad of bandages. There was something about him that reminded Bryan of someone else. In his dazed state it took him a moment to realise who that someone was. It was himself. Not himself now, but himself ten or so years ago. The man had a steely cold edge in his single eye. The same edge that Bryan had maybe, without even realising it until now, lost. And when you lost your edge in this business, you were well and truly fucked.
All three men were dressed in black bomber jackets that emphasised the whiteness of their latex-gloved hands. Their presence had, of course, taken Bryan by surprise. But another realisation had left him even more stunned than the hundreds of thousands of volts he’d been zapped with. He knew two of the men – the oldest was Stan Lockwood, the youngest was Liam Collins – and that knowledge made him wonder whether he’d been set up. Had Jim Monahan known these fuckers were lying in wait? He couldn’t bring himself to believe it. The tale of betrayal and abuse Jim had told him had to be the truth. It was too convoluted to be a lie. Wasn’t it? But then again, surely it was no coincidence that Stan and Liam, who were now zipping plastic cuffs onto his hands and feet, were ex-police.
Bryan tried to speak, but his brain didn’t seem to be able to get the message through to his mouth, and all that came out was a garbled groan. An unpleasant warmth spread down the backs of his thighs. With a withering sense of shame, the most respected and feared gangster in South Yorkshire realised he’d shit himself.