The Mercy Seat (11 page)

‘You know I told you I thought he was up to somethin’?’

Jack stared at him by way of an answer. Si continued.

‘Well, he is.’

A flicker of interest sparked in Jack’s eye.

‘Tell me.’

‘Well, he kept asking for a charger for his mobile. Said he needed to phone some punter. So I got suspicious, like. Sounded like he was hidin’ somethin’.’

‘So?’

‘So last night he went out again. An’ I followed him.’

‘Did he see you?’

‘No.’

Jack scrutinized him.

‘Honest. Had no idea I was there. He looked around a
lot, checkin’ no one was followin’, but I was better than him.’

Jack scowled. ‘Never mind about you. Just tell me what fuckin’ happened.’

The harshness of Jack’s tone made Si jump.

‘Sorry, Jack. So I followed him. An’ he went to a phone box an’ dialled a number. Asked to speak to someone. I was in the one backin’ on to it.’

‘A phone box? Why did he want his fuckin’ mobile charged, then?’

‘I’ll come to that,’ Si said quickly.

‘Well, hurry up. I haven’t got all fuckin’ day.’

Si said nothing.

‘Come on, then. Who was this someone?’

Si pulled a piece of paper from the back pocket of his jeans. He read out the spidery, unformed scrawl.

‘Joe Donovan. I came back an’ wrote it all down.’

If Si expected a word of praise or encouragement, then it wasn’t forthcoming from Jack. Slightly dispirited, he continued.

‘So they gave him another number. An’ he calls it. An’ I heard him say to this Donovan that he had the disc.’

‘Disc?’

‘Yeah, disc. An’ Donovan must’ve said how much does he want for it an’ that, ’cos then Jamal says a million.’

Father Jack’s features became less angry, more calculating. ‘A million?’

‘Yeah, that’s what he said. An’ then this Donovan must’ve laughed or somethin’, ’cos then Jamal said how much then, an’ then he said five thousand. So that’s what Donovan must’ve said.’

‘Five thousand? Did he agree?’

‘Yeah. But said it was a matter of life an’ death. Kept sayin’ that. Matter of life an’ death.’

A razor smile split Father Jack’s piggy face open.

‘Sounds like we’ve got a little blackmailer on our hands. Life and death. Five grand … I’m sure it could be worth more than that. I think we’d better have a word with our little friend.’

‘Yeah.’

‘So what’s he doing next? Don’t tell me you didn’t get that bit.’

‘No, no, I got it. They made plans to meet tomorrow night. That’s tonight. Down on the quayside. An’ then they’re goin’ back to Donovan’s hotel to do the changeover. Money for the disc.’

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 horrible 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.

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.