Serious People (34 page)

“Hey Mick,” Leroy shouted. A sly grin was on his lips.

“What the fuck is this?” Mickey asked.

“Dis tis a change of the guard Mick,” Leroy said, still grinning widely. “There’s a new crew running things now, believe blood. We’re fucking seriously backed. The world’s turned son.”

“What are you talking about?” Mickey replied.

“This is the ting Mick, by the end of this day, Charlie will be dead. And I’m fraid, blood, you too be dead long before that too.”

“Motherfucker,” Mickey shook his head.

“Yeah, fraid; we locked all the doors and windows down hard, so you better believe there’s no use in trying to run. Just take it like a proper bwoy, Mick,” Leroy shouted.

Mickey looked grimly down at his bag.

“He’s gonna pull out a weapon!” a voice shouted, coming from the crowd of men in front of Mickey.

“Hush, hush, don’t be a bumbaclat!” Leroy snapped firmly, his grin gone from his lips. “This here tis Mickey the Bag, one of the hardest motherfuckers in London. If he want to go down, with one of those hammers or spades from his tool bag, then the least we can fucking do is oblige.”

The crowd didn’t look so sure about Leroy’s instruction—these fellas were obviously all familiar with the legendary bag’s status. The majority of them took an unconscious step back.

“See I going to let you go down fighting, as a mark of respect to ya Mick,” Leroy grinned.

Mickey was now ignoring the Jamaican and the group of men in front of him. Within a single motion, he crouched down and was opening his bag. After watching Seamus die he knew he had one hope. Leroy, as a result of his arrogance, might just give him some kind of chance. This allowed him to make one move; and he knew this might be it.

It had been a long time since he’d opened his bag when he wasn’t just on his own. He knew what Leroy expected to come out of it; he was well aware of the urban legends his bag had created, all of which were wrong. If today was his day to die, then he would take some pleasure from the horrified look about to appear on Leroy’s face.

Mickey put his hands through his hair, to adjust his quiff. If he was to get out of this situation, he’d need a big slice of luck. He then thrust both hands into his bag, hoping, when he pulled his weapon of choice, it wouldn’t get caught on the strap on its way out. He needed it to be ready to be used in a split second. 

The men in front of him were now standing in something like a ring around Mickey; and were the first to acknowledge the AK-47 assault rifle in his hands. He’d got lucky. Within seconds his hands had taken the weapon out of his bag, flipped the catch onto automatic, and started firing.

All the time he’d spent, with pain staking effort, stripping and cleaning the weapon, the hours he’d spent in desolate places practicing firing, had all been for this day. Ever since the Peszkis, he’d never made use of the bag against anyone. His rep had been sufficient—he’d never needed to use the bag—until today.  

Almost instantly, carnage ensued. The nearest men to Mickey tried hopelessly to turn and flee, but they only tumbled into the rest of Leroy’s crew. Their desperate faces quickly dissolved into a blur of blood.

Mickey unleashed bullets into the crowd of would-be attackers for what seemed like more than ten minutes but was probably no more than a couple. Leroy’s gang had quickly split into two sets of people: those who forgot they were locked in and tried in vain to run; and the more courageous ones who threw themselves toward their intended victim with their knives and bats. Mickey suffered bruises and gashes as each of these attackers lashed towards him, but none of them survived to make more than one thrust.

Then, after his rifle had finally clicked empty, there was only silence; the only sound left was the ringing reverberating in Mickey’s ears, left by the ferocious sound of the AK-47.  Mickey was surrounded by dead or dying bodies. Blood was everywhere—but he was alive.

It wouldn’t be long before he would hear the sound of sirens, Mickey thought, as he gave a quick glance to his watch. He strode through the bodies towards the one he was looking for—Leroy. As he got closer to the bar he could see the familiar form of the Jamaican, slumped against one side of the counter, covered in blood. Mickey couldn’t see any obvious wound, but the amount of blood told its own story. He allowed himself a smile.

Leroy looked up at Mickey as he approached. “You… You…” Leroy stopped to cough as blood streamed down his chin. “You… bwoy, had a fucking gun!”

“Shut the fuck up!” Mickey said, raising the rifle above his head and then thrusting it down on top of Leroy’s skull.

Leroy was dead. Mickey had no time to enjoy this moment; he had to get out of there before the bill arrived—he had to get Charlie. Whatever was going on, or whoever was behind this, they must be heading for Charlie?

He turned towards the door and saw Seamus’ mammoth body lying in front of the door—shit. He couldn’t just leave his apprentice’s body here with all this scum. He should at least move it, or do something.

What was he thinking! That was stupid; what the fuck could he do with a body? Take it to a funeral parlour? The only thing he could do with Seamus now was get himself caught and banged up!

Mickey tried to clear his mind; he had to get to Charlie and quick. He went to run towards the bar door, when a sudden pain in his right side stopped him dead. He reached towards the centre of the pain, like a reflex, and looked down at his right hand, it was covered in blood. One of his near dead victims must have shanked him.

He didn’t have time for this shit; he had to get to Charlie. He tried to move again in the direction of the door, but his legs suddenly felt too heavy to budge. An awful cold started to spread over his body. His legs gave way.

All of sudden he could hear Elvis’ Suspicious Minds—where the hell was that music coming from? Maybe one his shots had dislodged something in the Blake’s jukebox?

“Here we go again, asking where I’ve been,” Mickey started to sing. “You can’t see these tears are real I’m crying.”

This was his favourite song; what was the bloody chance?

His eyes wanted to shut; he needed to rest. It was time to get some sleep.

“We’re caught in a trap, I can’t walk out.” Even though he felt so tired, his singing voice seemed to be getting stronger. “Because I love you too much baby!”   

“This one’s for you Dawn!”

His body was now so cold that he could barely feel his limbs; but in his mind he was on stage, singing to Dawn. He was damn fucking good too, he sounded like the King himself, he even looked a bit like him.

“”We’re caught in a trap, I can’t walk out! Because I love you too much baby!...”

John felt like he had been in a daze for the last twelve hours. All he cared about now was getting out of this mess; any love for his brothers had gone. The only reason he was still with them was that he knew that, if he tried to leave, Billy would kill him. He could see it in his eyes.

Billy had killed a policewoman. John was numb with the consequences of his brother’s action; but Billy himself appeared entirely emotionless. He didn’t seem at all moved by what he had done, which was crazy. The police never let one of their own go down without finding the people responsible and banging them up. Also, she was a woman—she was someone’s little girl—she was someone’s baby.

It hadn’t been like when they killed Payne; he was a gangster. John knew that every gangster has it coming, eventually. Only the most lucky survive. But killing a police officer—a young woman—that was different.

He’d tried to get Billy to understand.

“Billy, what the fuck have you done? How could you do that!”

“Brother, I fucking own the police now. How’d you fucking think I knew she was coming? I’m fucking properly connected now!” Billy snapped, his eyes dark with rage.

John had no time to understand what Billy was saying. His words sounded like the ramblings of a mad man, and that’s what his brothers were, mad men. John had spent all his life trying to make sense and excuses for what they did, but reality was that they were scum. They were probably always going to be scum, regardless of what they had witnessed when their Ma was murdered.

And John could not get the look of the police officer out of his mind—of her face, as she saw Billy point the gun towards her head. She had the look of a child who was hoping her father would appear from nowhere and save her from these nasty men.
She looked so harmless, so helpless. How could Billy have taken her life away from her? All the things she could have done—all the things she was meant to do?

John didn’t know if his feelings were down to hearing the news that Emma was pregnant. Perhaps that had changed him. In any case, he couldn’t get the woman’s face out of his mind.

“Billy, I might go home, you don’t need me here. I’ll just get in the way,” John had tried to say, as they stood there in the cellar, with the dead woman lying on the floor between them.

“John, I need you now. You fucking hear me. If you try and leave, I’ll fucking kill ya. You’re either with me or against me. Simple as,” Billy had replied.

John could see Billy meant it. He had to get the hell away from him at the first opportunity, but in the last few hours, there’d been none. He thought they had done a bad job of hiding the young woman’s body in the river; but the truth was that he wanted the officer to be found. He needed her parents to know what had happened to her. It was the least he could do.

John turned to Billy; he’d never seen him so happy. They had been sitting in the van for the last half an hour, looking at the large gated entrance to O’Neil’s haulage yard. John was beginning to wonder if Billy had finally gone completely mad and forgotten why they were there, lost in his own insanity.

“We shouldn’t have killed the girl,” John said.

“Girl, she was no girl. She was the fucking filth,” Billy snapped.

John couldn’t believe the callousness of his brother’s words. He knew it was probably best to keep his mouth shut, but couldn’t help himself. “She was someone’s baby Billy. She was someone’s little girl.” 

“You stupid cunt,” Billy smiled and shook his head. “Focus on the plan, you little bitch.”

John stared back but didn’t reply.

“We’re gonna wait here until it’s the right time to go in,” Billy said, glaring back at John.

Nick cackled with laughter. John turned to look at his youngest brother who was being kept amused by his Nintendo DS. The man could hardly go for thirty minutes without interaction with a television or his Nintendo.

Nick, of course, had been affected the most by witnessing his Ma’s death, never speaking a word after that day. It was now so long ago John sometimes wondered what his voice might sound like; but in recent days though he was thankful he only had to listen to one psychopath.

“I suppose you’ll be wanting to marry the bitch next won’t you brother,” Billy snapped.

John turned back to look at Billy. Any option of arguing with his brother was now too dangerous to pursue.

“I’m in love with her Billy,” John replied.

Billy laughed a dry harsh laugh.

John knew the laugh was intended in an inflammatory way, so he chose to ignore it. “I mean it. I love her.” 

“Auntie Mary said this would happen,” Billy said, shaking his head. “She said it as soon as she set her eyes on her; she knew that bitch was desperate. Emma’s just been looking for someone to impregnate her. She'd have had anyone. That's what Auntie Mary said. And it seems she was right; I bet she’s trying to get herself up the duff as we speak.”

John could feel anger building up in him; but he recognised how futile losing his temper with Billy was. He had learnt his lesson many times in the past from previous fallings out with his brother. Billy's temper had countless gears of hate it could move through to inflict both mental and physical pain. Added to this, there was Billy’s murderous threat. All in all, the best way to deal with Billy was to stay calm and let his anger blow itself out.

He looked back at Billy and smiled. “Well. That's what all girls want isn’t it? In the end.”

“Only the real skanks. And you’ve succumbed to this one quicker than ever before; I’d barely call you a Blake these days,” Billy replied sourly. “You’re more of a Bailey than a Blake; like that old bitch Roy.”

John wished he was a Bailey with all his heart. He would love to be a Bailey—anything but Billy and Nick’s brother.

“Bailey, yeah that’s what I’ll call you from now on,” Billy said smiling, his eye's now dark black. “What do you think Nick?”

Nick didn’t respond or even acknowledge the question; he was still concentrating on his computer game.

“Yeah you’re right. He should have it on his birth certificate,” Billy said, as if he was replying to Nick’s suggestion.

John looked out of the window of the van; he began to hope that O’Neil might kill all his brothers now and somehow make a deal with him. Perhaps he could convince him that he had never been any part of Billy’s plot and should be allowed to go free?

He looked back his brother, Nick, still playing on his Nintendo, and then at Billy, who had begun to drum his fingers on the steering wheel with impatience.

“Right let’s do this; we’ll sneak in quietly find O’Neil. And we’ll kill him—simple,” Billy whispered.

Within moments, the Blake brothers had quickly made their way from the van and were now standing outside the offices of  O’Neil & Payne Logistics. John carefully looked through the window that faced into the foyer of the office. His two brothers were crouched under the window and both were now armed. Billy still had the handgun he had taken from the policewoman. If John had thought he’d listen, he’d have told him how stupid it was walking around with a police issue weapon. Nick was holding his large knife aloft, with a stupid grin on his face. They both looked ready to kill again.

John could make out a large looking man inside the office, reading a magazine; the man seemed to have a body frame that even Arnold Schwarzenegger would be jealous of. He was sat behind the reception, with his feet on the desk, and didn’t look as if he was particularly alert. Despite this, there was no doubt, his attention would be drawn straight away to anyone walking through the door.

“There’s no way we can get in without that big guy raising the alarm,” John said.

“Shut up Bailey; leave this to the real Blakes,” Billy hissed back. He gave Nick a nod and crawled to the centre of the yard.

Nick quickly moved across, just behind the door hinges, and gave Billy another nod. It was as if they’d rehearsed their plan for hours. John looked towards the large gates at the entrance and wondered, just for a moment, if he could still make a run for it. It was too risky though; he wasn’t sure that Billy was much of a shot but didn’t want to put his theory to the test.

Billy suddenly stood up and started to wave at the man behind the reception desk. John could feel his heart start to thump; his brother was trying to draw the man out. He carefully looked into the foyer again and could see the large man had indeed noticed Billy and was now glaring at him.

John looked back at Billy, who’d started to wave his middle finger at the large man. He was doing everything he could to silently wind the man up. John looked back again at the large man, who was now walking towards the front door, looking like he was planning to give Billy a good kicking.

Within an instant, Nick had his knife ready and was adjusting into position for a brutal attack on the man. Before John could decide what part he was meant to play in this, the man had walked through the door and Nick had plunged his knife into the man’s broad neck.

Time was now moving in slow motion to John. Nick was covered in the man’s blood and Billy was standing astride his body. Billy brutally smashing the large man’s head against the floor, John had to turn away. The man was going to be dead quickly.

Billy looked up at John and grinned. “See Bailey, fucking easy.”

John nodded a speechless reply. He was unable to speak due to the hideous nature of the violence and, in any case, not sure of what to say in response.

It was a matter of seconds before the three brothers were stood in the foyer. John could almost sense the presence of Charlie O'Neil, the infamous gangster and it was scaring him to death.

“What if he’s not here Billy? What then?” John asked, knowing full well the gangster would be somewhere around; he was bound to be.

Billy shook his head dismissively and waved John and Nick to go and search upstairs. Nick smiled in reply and started to creep up the stairs with his knife drawn. John, seeing no alternative, followed behind his youngest brother, his mind searching for ideas of how to escape. All he could do right now, was play for time.

It only took a few minutes to clear the first floor; it was empty. John had grimaced when he read one of the office door signs. It read ‘Mickey Dunne – Operations Manager’. He couldn’t get the image out of his mind of Mickey the Bag bursting out the door, holding a spade aloft in a murderous rage.

By the time John and his brother had started to ascend the next flight of stairs, John was beginning to hope that the offices might be empty—until he saw O’Neil’s office at the top of the stairs.

The light to the office was on and there was a strong smell of aftershave coming from the room. Charlie O’Neil was in there all right.

The door to the office was open, Nick and John peered inside. Nick nodded towards a big leather chair, in the centre of the office, positioned behind a large desk. The seat was facing away from them and towards a large window. It wasn’t totally clear if someone was sat in it. But every sense John had told him that Charlie O’Neil was sitting there. From looking at Nick’s face he could tell that his brother thought the same.

It all seemed too easy; all Nick had to do was creep into O’Neil’s office and catch him unawares. What didn’t seem so easy to work out was how the hell John was going to get out of this mess.