The Mercy Seat (36 page)

Jamal assured him it was nothing, even offered him a little smile. Amar didn’t probe, went to the kitchen area, put the bags down.

‘You can eat bacon, yeah?’ he asked. ‘You’re not Muslim?’

‘Nah, man. You?’

‘Oh, I eat anything,’ said Amar. ‘Well, within reason. Why don’t you give me a hand?’

Jamal did. They ate. Enjoyed it. Afterwards, Jamal looked around the flat again, sat back. Smiled.

‘You’re OK, man,’ he said. ‘Food, PS2 … like stayin’ at a big brov’s flat, you get me?’

Amar smiled.

‘I’m ready to talk about that disc now,’ Jamal said.

‘I’ll go and get some recording gear.’ Amar left the kitchen, trying not to look too excited.

‘Yeah,’ said Jamal to himself. He sat back.

Safe.

Keenyside paused, looked around. Made sure no one was
hiding in the darkness, watching him. He began undoing the lock. Once he’d opened the door he gave another look around, then entered, locking the door firmly behind him.

Things were moving too fast. He had to take charge, regain control.

He kept repeating those words like a mantra.

Janine.
Beat them up.
The words had given her away. He followed her out of work. To the Prince of Wales. And there they were together.

Janine and Mikey Blackmore. Then thinking they’d blackmail him to keep them quiet.

Pathetic.

Nothing but minor irritations, but ones that still had to be dealt with. Stick them in the mercy seat. No. Recall Hammer from wherever he was, get him to take care of them. He couldn’t have something as irrelevant as them spoiling things now. Brutal but necessary. The amount of money at stake justified it.

It justified everything.

But he didn’t need Hammer for what he was about to do.

He waited until his eyes acclimatized to the inner gloom then moved forward. He saw his breath as steam, felt the cold in the building immediately. He looked over at the radiator. Saw Colin and Caroline Huntley huddled into their own blankets.

Unmoving.

His steps quickened. Was it that cold?

He reached them. Caroline stirred. He gave a sigh of relief. She looked up, saw it was him, looked away again.

‘Hello, Caroline,’ he said.

She didn’t reply.

‘You should be huddled up together,’ he said; ‘keep warm that way.’

‘Fuck off, Alan,’ she said, her voice almost a groan of
pain. ‘I wouldn’t go near him or you. Not after what you’ve done.’

Keenyside ignored her. He had more important things to think about than hurt feelings. He looked at Colin Huntley. Even in the weak light of the lockup he didn’t look well. His skin was pale, almost opaque. He was still cradling his injured arm. Shunted up against the wall, his position almost foetal. Despite the cold there was sweat on his brow.

Don’t die, thought Keenyside. At least don’t die before you’ve done what I want you to do.

‘Colin.’

Colin Huntley opened his eyes. His vision looked glassy and vague.

‘Are you ready to do it, Colin?’

Colin just stared at him.

Keenyside’s voice became quiet, his breathing controlled. His hands were shaking. ‘Because if you’re not, something horrible’s going to happen to Caroline. And I’m going to make you watch.’

No response.

‘I’ve tried to be reasonable,’ Keenyside continued, ‘but you won’t cooperate. I don’t want to hurt your daughter, but you’re leaving me no option.’

He reached into his overcoat pocket, brought out a hunting knife and a roll of gaffer tape.

Caroline tried to pull away. The chain stopped her.

‘This is more in sorrow than anger, Colin.’ He pulled out a length of tape, cut it off with his teeth. ‘Whatever happens from now on is on your head.’

Keenyside slipped the knife back into his pocket and turned to Caroline. She put her hands before her face, ready to fight back. Keenyside swiftly kicked her in the ribs. She keeled over, gasping. He pulled her head back by the hair, stuck the length of tape over her mouth.

Face contorted with pain, she tried to pull it off. Keenyside pulled her up, wrist straining at the cuff, and punched her. She fell down again.

He pulled her hands together behind her, painfully twisting her as he went, and bound them with tape. She was half slumped, half propped against the radiator.

She began to cry.

Keenyside looked at Colin. ‘Say the word and this all stops.’

Colin said nothing.

Keenyside pulled out the knife, grabbed Caroline by the hair until she had lost her balance, placed the tip of the blade beneath her eyes.

‘Ready to make that call yet, Colin? Ready for this to be over?’

Colin just stared, his face a mask of pain.

‘This is your daughter here.’

He pushed the knife closer to her skin. A teardrop of blood appeared below her eye, ran down the blade.

‘Look, Colin, she’s crying. She wants you to help her. Won’t Daddy help his daughter?’

Caroline’s body was heaving with sobs. Colin looked about to start himself.

‘One call, Colin, and it’s all over.’ He moved the knife under her eye. Blood trickled out and down.

‘Come on, Colin. You know I’ll do it.’

Colin began to shake.

‘I’ll fucking do it, Colin. You know I will!’

Colin jumped as if he had been slapped. He sighed. Gave a slow nod of his head.

Keenyside smiled. Breathed a huge sigh of relief. Back in full control again. ‘That’s the spirit.’

Keenyside pocketed the knife, let Caroline drop. He took out from his coat a re-chipped, untraceable mobile that he
had liberated from a dealer. From another pocket he produced a piece of paper on which was written a number. He began to key in the number.

‘You know,’ he said as he did so, ‘all this could have been avoided. It’s all your fault, Colin. All of it. You had to go down to London, talk to that journalist. I don’t think you realized how serious I was about this. The lengths I would go to, to make sure this deal would go through. I bet you do now.’ He gave a little laugh. ‘Oh yes.’

He finished dialling, put the phone to his ear.

‘It’s ringing.’

Trying to quell the excitement rising within, Keenyside kneeled down, placed the phone against Colin’s ear. The injured man’s breath was rank with decay.

He heard the line click as it was answered. Locked eyes with Colin, nodded at him to proceed.

‘This is Colin Huntley.’

His voice sounded as broken and weary as his body looked.

‘We’re ready to deal.’

Keenyside smiled.

It was finally happening.

The Barn at the Biscuit Factory. And Francis Sharkey was trying to bloat out his expense account as much as possible. He was surprised to find somewhere like this in Newcastle, although he had to admit this trip to the north-east had actively challenged his prejudices. In a positive way.

The Biscuit Factory was an original art store housed over two floors in a converted factory in the Shieldfield area of Newcastle. Although Sharkey didn’t know much about art, he knew a lot about investment and was sufficiently impressed to consider making a return journey accompanied by someone who would be able to guide him wisely, not
only on what to buy but how to make it tax deductible or a claimable expense.

The Barn restaurant on the ground floor he found very acceptable. Chunky wooden furniture, bare walls and muted lighting attempted to re-create a kind of Mid-western atmosphere. He was happy to go along with it, especially since his starter of wild mushroom risotto had gone down well and the Chilean Merlot was proving most pleasant. He sipped, waiting for his main course of roast lamb.

His mobile rang.

He drained his glass, replaced it on the table, put his phone to his ear.

‘Francis Sharkey.’

The waiter came to replenish the glass. He nodded his thanks.

‘This is Colin Huntley.’

Sharkey froze. His heart skipped a beat.

‘We’re ready to deal.’

His dinner was placed before him. It looked wonderful and smelled delicious but he didn’t want it any more. He had suddenly lost his appetite.

He leaned forward as if shielding his conversation from the other diners.

‘I’m listening,’ he said.

Mikey Blackmore opened the door of his flat, fish and chips under one arm, entered.

For once he didn’t notice the poverty and squalor, feel the sense of failure that usually assailed him on returning. He was too excited.

Janine had set the plan in motion. She would give Keenyside a time and place. Mikey would be there.

‘What are you goin’ to do?’ she had asked him.

‘Make him pay,’ Mikey had replied.

A look of fear crossed her face.

‘Not like that,’ Mikey said quickly. ‘I mean, make him pay. Give us money.’

‘Oh.’ Janine looked much more relieved.

Reassured.

He went into the bedroom, kneeled down with some difficulty, his ribs still hurting, felt under the bed.

Pulled out what he wanted.

Smiled to himself.

‘Don’t worry, Janine,’ he said out loud. ‘I won’t hurt Alan Keenyside.’

He pointed the gun at his reflection in the mirror. Saw his battered face. Thought of Janine and her pain. Remembered who was responsible for both. Mimed pulling the trigger.

Laughed.

‘I won’t hurt him,’ he said. ‘I’ll kill him.’

Mikey felt the happiest he had been in years.

The bar was heaving, standing room only. Air a thick cocktail of fag and spliff smoke, sweat, aged leather and unwashed denim. Old, scarred wooden surfaces of bar and tables were wet with spilled alcohol. Lights cast sporadic, dim illumination. Doom-laden riffs and chest-hammering bass spewed from the wall-mounted speakers like the earth violently giving up its dead. Heads nodded along, some mouthed lyrics.

Cradle of Filth: ‘The Principle of Evil Made Flesh’.

The barroom shook; a jubilant jig of rejected assumptions and values, the thump of a sick and angry heart.

Hammer stood at the end of the bar nursing his mineral water and watching, smiling. He had chosen carefully: the right pub in the right-sized town with the right clientele. He took in the atmosphere; it only increased his appetite.

He flexed his knuckles, admired the designs. Drew sustenance from the words.

He had divided the clientele into four main tribes: hardcore, way-of-life metallers proudly displaying their piercings and tattoos, bikers carrying their predisposition to violence as comfortably as they wore their chapter-patched leathers, a smattering of teenaged student goths, either pale and slim-wristed or shapeless and bulky, taking the Rice/Brite tourist route on their way to eventual, comfortable lives, and real headcases. All, by circumstance or design, outcasts, wearing that description like a badge or a brand. But they were nothing as compared with him. But no one had been cast out
further than him. He was their king, their superior in every way, if they did but know it.

The principle of evil made flesh.

This wasn’t work, this was pleasure.

He waited, knowing his target would appear soon.

The song ended, another one took its place: Slipknot: ‘Me Inside’.

Heads bobbed harder. The pub picked up the vibe of the song, made the atmosphere angrier. Voices sang/snarled in Corey Taylor imitation. He picked up on it, nodded along in time, even mouthed the words: ‘You can’t kill me, coz I’m already inside you …’

Then that familiar tingle, that lurch in the pit of his stomach.

The victim. Standing at the bar, brandishing a ten-pound note.

Late twenties, tall, stocky and stacked. The sides of his head shaved but stubbled, greasy hair pulled back and tied at his neck in a long mohican. Muscled arms decorated with biker tattoos bulged from the sleeves of his ancient, faded Motorhead T-shirt. Old, ripped, dark-matter-encrusted jeans almost stood by themselves, biker boots – real, worn working ones – protruded from the ends and covered his feet. Fat strained and spread over his belt like a splitting bin bag full of rotting food. His bearing, his features a mask of arrogance and danger: seemingly unafraid of anyone or anything in the world.

The others in the pub were avoiding the biker; he emanated waves of violence like the blast range of a nuclear bomb. He inspired fear and that fear bought him respect.

Perfect.

He felt the biker look towards him. His gaze flinched slightly, showed a slight unfamiliar tremor of unease, and Hammer knew he had him.

Hammer smiled. The biker curled his lip. Hammer winked. The biker shook his head dismissively and turned away, carrying the drinks back to his chapter clustered round a small table. He could see them talking, knew that the furtive glances were being directed at him. They all began nodding and exchanging cruel, unpleasant smiles. He knew what they were planning. Bring it on. It was what he was there for.

He finished his drink, slapped the glass down on the bar and made his way unsteadily towards the back door. On the way he gave a lurch towards the seated biker, elbowing him in the back, causing him to spill his drink as it made its way to his mouth. The mohicaned biker turned round, anger blazing in his eyes.

‘Sorry,’ said Hammer in his weakest, most victim-like voice. ‘Bit pissed. No harm done, eh?’

The biker turned round, pleased to have the excuse he was looking for.

‘What’s your game, eh? Eh?’

Hammer gave a wide-eyed, drunk-innocent look. ‘No game. No problem. Specially for big, tough lads like you. Could quite go for a man in a leather jacket.’ He squeezed the biker on the shoulder in an affectionate gesture and smiled. ‘Goin’ home now. Nighty night.’

And lurched towards the back door.

Outside, the air was cold, the sky scraped black. The alleyway at the side of the pub was dotted with overspilled drinkers. Hammer walked past them to the end of the alleyway, as if making his drunken way across the exposed, empty, gravelled wasteland that doubled as car and bike park and local fly-tipping area, and waited.

But not for long. The door was flung open and the biker, followed by his cronies, emerged. They were fired up, tooled up with pickaxe handles, baseball bats and lengths of chain,
fight-ready. They saw him. The biker made his way towards him, turned him by the shoulder. He pretended to be surprised.