Graven Image (4 page)

After a very long hesitation I sat down. ‘I asked
where
she is, not how come she’s there.’

‘She’s...’ She stopped and took a deep and shivery breath. ‘If you want to know where she is, maybe you should go back where you did it. Go there and try to work things out for yourself.’

‘What? Are you on about the VIP? Are... do you mean Destiny?’

‘I’ve said all I’m saying.’

‘She’s at Destiny? What’s she there for? Is someone looking after her?’

‘You swore on your daughter, Leon. You stay away from me now - I’ve told you what you want to hear. Now go, please.’

‘I ain’t going nowhere. You ain’t told me
shit
yet. All you told me is
riddles
!’

‘Frank?’

‘Don’t look at Frank! Look at me, you slag! You stole my daughter and I want her back! Now!’

Frank raised a baseball bat over his head, shouting: ‘You take your hands off her!’

‘I’ll take your
head
off
you
, you come at me with that thing!’

‘Frank! He’s hurting me!’

Old Frank was some sort of white knight at heart. He came sliding over the bar, knocking empties everywhere and slipping on a wet bar towel when his feet touched down. He righted himself and took a swing at me. He was a left hander, like Babe Ruth. But where Babe Ruth was very good at swinging a bat, Frank was shit at it. I ducked.

The bat cut through the space where my head had been and followed through, hitting Carla in the shoulder and decking her. I laughed and planted my fist in Frank’s fat belly. I could feel the beer sloshing around my knuckles, like I was leaning into a balloon full of warm tea. I laid another one in, hoping to burst that balloon. If you’re gonna do it, mean it.

There was actually three pork scratching lads, not two. The other was coming back from the bogs just then, doing himself up. The other two slid off their stools and faced me, arms wide. No scratchings now, just three pairs of clenched fists and a couple of smirks at the prospect of kicking my black arse.

Fine.

Only one of them approached in the Queensbury manner, the other two skirting round the back like dirty pack hounds. I made a note of their unsportsmanlike behaviour and feinted a right at the one to the fore, following through with a left uppercut that waved adios to the end of his tongue, which happened to be between his teeth at that moment. Nice teeth, they were. Especially the ones at the front. I nutted him, waving adios to them as well. Someone hit me on the back of the head.

I hadn’t forgotten about the other two, just wasn’t set up to receive them in the manner they deserved until now. I grabbed one by the throat and held him like that while I whipped my left leg out at a right angle, winding the other and possibly breaking a couple of ribs. I don’t know karate, honest I don’t. Alright, I did take one or two lessons as a kid. But this kind of stuff comes natural to you if you just relax and let the mood swing you. I’ve got to admit, though, it helps to have a hard head. Especially when someone launches a stool at it.

I took it on the left ear, squishing the lobe and leaving it a tangle of flesh and gold. Shame, because I’d bought that ring new this morning. Hurt quite a bit as well. But do you know something? I quite liked it. It suited the mood I was in, putting a nice, bitter taste in my mouth and flooding my veins with turmoil. I smiled at the person who’d done that to me. It was Carla.

Everything went quiet for a moment as I looked at her. I’m not sure but I think it might have been in my head, the quiet. Maybe it was in her head too. Neither of us was speaking but it seemed like we were saying thousands of words to each other, just with our eyes. No, not thousands, just a few. But big ones. Important ones. I just didn’t know what they were.

‘Still do that, do you?’ she said.

‘What?’

‘That.’

She nodded at the table where we’d been sat. In the ash tray was a cheese and onion crisp wrapper, balled up tight in a pyramid shape. I stared at it, confused.

That’s when Babe Ruth knocked me out.

LEVEL 2: VOCAL ALERT

1. Make judgement on whether vocal alert is genuine distress call or part of sexual congress. NB: client may well have requested and paid for vocal alert as an optional extra (eg: screaming, moaning, begging)

2. Upon arrival at scene, if alert is found to be non-genuine, apologise to client in a discreet manner and leave

3. If alert is genuine, deal with it

Security is all about preparation. Getting your environment right, setting up the correct procedures, having the appropriate tools at hand for every eventuality. On top of that you need well-trained personnel, good men and women who know the drill and do not fluctuate from it. In the case of Destiny Gentlemen’s Club, obviously the good men and women were just men, and only one of them. Plenty of women there, of course, but they were not designated security professionals. And they weren’t good.

I grabbed the appropriate tool (locking up the security tool cabinet after me) and headed for the stairs.

I’d designed our alert scale myself, basing it on ones in prisons and other institutions around the country, but adapting it for the particular demands of the sex industry. I’d started off with eighteen levels but boiled it down to four. Barely was my hand on the banister when the second one kicked in.

‘I love this song.’

You can smell a Beamer.

In a good way.

‘
Baby I want you come
...’

Something going on in the engine produces a fragrance that is not unpleasant. But not quite pleasant, either. Those Germans knew all about that. Frankfurters - no one’s going to class them as fine dining. But no one’s going to turn one down, either. Especially not in a bun, a squiggle of mustard and red sauce on top.

It’s like that with the Beamer smell.

‘It’s Robbie Williams singing it, you know.’

‘You think I’m thick, do you, Dux?’

‘No, I was just saying it’s—’

‘You think I didn’t know that Robbie Williams was in Take That, don’t you?’

‘I was just—’

‘Don’t underestimate me, Dux. Last person who underestimated me, you know what I did to ’em?’

‘What?’

‘I destroyed ’em.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Yep.’

‘Who was that, then?’

It was all washing over me, the Beamer smell and the voice droning on about destroying Robbie Williams. I was neither asleep nor awake and my head hurt. Hurt pretty bad, actually. I didn’t know where I was, either. Actually I did: I was nowhere. Not Earth, Heaven nor Hell. I was in that place high up, where the stallion meets the sun. But in a Beamer.

‘Are you doubting me, Dux?’

‘Eh?’

‘Are you calling me a liar?’

‘When did I say that?’

‘Are you saying this person I destroyed don’t actually exist, knowing full well I ain’t at liberty to name him for fear of incriminating my ass?’

‘No! Look, all I meant was—’

‘Why would it incriminate your ass, Sid?’

‘Shut up, Gnash. I’m having a word with Dux, here.’

‘I was just wondering. Just thought maybe you destroyed ’em with your ass, or summat.’

‘How would I do that? How would I
destroy
someone with my
ass
?’

I closed my eyes and tried to get back to where I’d emerged from, block out all that external bollocks. But the Beamer smell kept coming to my nostrils, nagging at me.
Think
, it was saying.
Think about me
. So I did.

And remembered that the Beamer smell is an interior one. Which meant... I dunno, something.

It means you’re inside a Beamer right now, you twat. A black Beamer, to be precise. The one that Graven’s boys were following you in
.

It was right, the Beamer smell was. I wanted to thank it but it disappeared before I could, replaced by an altogether more rank affair.

‘
Aaargh
... who done that?’ the main voice was whining. ‘Who shit in my Beamer?’

‘That was me, Sid.’

‘Don’t you
ever
drop one like that in my Beamer again, Gnash! You do and I’ll destroy your... I’ll fuckin’
kill
you!’

‘I was just showing how you can destroy someone with your ass. You got a fart bad enough, you could probably kill someone.’

‘Shut the fuck up.’

‘Sid, I think—’

‘You can shut it as well, Dux.’

‘No, I’m serious, you ought to—’

‘I’m serious as well! I’ve had enough of your—’

‘Sid! It’s him. The spade, he’s come round!’

I had things straight in my head now. I was in a car with three of Graven’s twats. One of them had something terrible inside his guts and another had a fragile ego. The third was the one from in the abbey earlier on. I knew this because my eye popped up a fraction at the word “spade”. He was sitting next to me on the back seat, pointing what looked like an Uzi machine gun at me. The car stopped. Hard.

I rolled into the foot bay.

‘Sid, he’s fallen into the—’

‘Don’t you ever... EVER call a black person that again!’

‘What’s the problem, Sid? I’m only calling a spade a—’

‘Gimme that.’

‘What?’

‘The Uzi. Giz here!’

‘W-why?’

‘Do you trust me, Dux?’

‘Y-yeah, but—’

‘Come on, give. That’s it... Good, now... You think I’m gonna shoot you?’

‘Well, no, but I don’t like you pointing—’

‘You think I won’t shoot you ’cos I’m your mate, eh?’

‘Yeah, but it’s dangerous to—’

‘What if I told you I was half-black?’

‘But you ain’t.’

‘How’d you know?’

‘You ain’t half-black, Sid!’

‘Shut up, Gnash!’

‘But how can you be half-black? You got ginger hair!’

‘I
told
you - It ain’t ginger! It’s fire blonde.’

‘Whatever, you ain’t half-black.’

‘Oh yeah? And what about Ryan Giggs?’

Seemed like the right moment to do something. That rank smell had worked like a dose of smelling salts, shaking my senses up and getting my head working through the pain. The data was flowing in: who was where, how big and strong they were, where the gun was, who had bollocks, who didn’t, who was racist, who wasn’t. I reached up for a handful of headrest, intending to pull myself up and knock out all three in one fluid motion. But my arm didn’t reach that far. It didn’t reach anywhere at all, being stuck.

The Dux one flinched away from me, going: ‘Sid! He’s... he’s...!’

‘Ah,’ said Sid, pointing the Uzi at me now. ‘We got a wide-awake one here. How’s your head, bro?’

I closed my eyes for a think. No way was he gonna pull the trigger on me. I had him down for no bollocks and I can spot that sort a mile off. I could feel what the problem was now: handcuffs. Cold and heavy and not a chance of wriggling out of them with my big hands. But no matter.

Seriously, this was no bad turn of events. I had no clue how I’d gone from the Alma to here, but it was all to the good. I was being taken to Graven.

To Kelly.

‘Miserable fucker,’ Sid was saying to me. ‘I’ll get you answering me in a minute. You just wait.’

He drove on for another few minutes. It was dark outside. Dux and Gnash were peering down at me, their obscured heads bobbing with the contours of the road. And it was quite a bumpy road. Like a farm track.

‘Here’ll do.’

The car stopped and the three neds got out. I was invited to join them, and I did. No point in kicking up a fuss here. A fuss could be kicked up when the time came. And by then I’d have talked my way out of these cuffs.

It was no farm track. The road was asphalt but fallen into disrepair. There were buildings all around, all of them industrial and derelict. This was the old Billings Estate, on the edge of Makin. Some of the girls had plied their trade up here before coming to Destiny. You could see why. A girl and a punter could get up to anything inside those rusted hulks of former factories and warehouses, and respectable society need never know.

I’m no fool.

I know that an Uzi and a derelict estate don’t add up to a bright future.

Don’t panic.

You can deal with neds.

‘What’s you got?’ said Sid, the leader. He was ten or so yards off, his homies flanking him like bodyguards, Uzi trained at my knees.

‘Nothing,’ I said. Truthfully. ‘But you know that, right? You frisked me already, right?’

They looked at each other, hissing quiet blame.

‘Look, you might as well get on with it. No one’s here to stop you. Gimme what I got coming, eh.’

‘Hold your horses, nigger,’ said Sid.

‘What did you call me?’

‘Yeah, but... I mean, I thought it was OK to—’

‘You wanna say that word to me again, white boy?’

‘I don’t mean it like that! I’m saying it in the good way. You know, the way you’re allowed to say it. Like NWA - niggers with, erm...’

I turned and started walking towards the nearest building - an old metal castings plant, I think.

‘Oi! Where’s you—?’

‘You wanna do it inside,’ I said. ‘Out here in the open, you never know who’s watching.’

I carried on in there, smirking a bit. I couldn’t believe what twats these were. If that’s the level Graven was operating at, I’d been overestimating him. He still had my Kelly, though. As long as he did, I’d tread careful.

They followed, bickering.

I marched on, walking faster all the while. If they didn’t keep up, I was going to walk on through the building and out the other side. Probably find some kind of rusted old machine edge around here to break these cuffs. Then they’d have some explaining to do when they got back to Graven.

‘Mate!’ one of them shouted. ‘We... we ain’t gonna kill you. We just wanted to shit you up, like. ’Cos of you roughing up Dux, in the abbey.’

‘You’re not gonna shoot me?’

‘I don’t think so, no. It’s Dux - he can’t fight his own battles.’

‘Oi!’ shouted Dux. ‘That ain’t true!’