Dead Pretty (11 page)

Kelly scratched his head.

‘Yeah, all right, I s'pose. You
are
in some kind of bother, ain't you?'

‘Aye, some kind.'

‘You're not gonna bring nothing down on me?'

‘It's nothing for you to worry about.'

No, you're just harbouring someone who's involved in a murder feud with the Albanian mafia. Nothing to worry about at all, Kelly.

As long as Mark was gone early there wouldn't be any comeback for Kelly – he wasn't worth anyone bothering about, let alone killing. After Agani they would have to be careful. The sea off Dungeness might get crowded.

‘I'll crash out then,' Kelly said. ‘Had a few drinks, like.'

Kelly took off his heavy coat, letting free another wave of smells. He had a thin, multi-coloured sweater on, and it was threatening to come apart. Kelly slumped down onto his bed, without removing anything else, for which Mark was thankful. He was asleep in seconds and snoring shortly afterwards. Kelly looked like a baby wrapped in tatty clothes but for one crazy moment Mark envied him. His own rest came in small bursts, dropping into sleep for ten or fifteen minutes, then waking with a start and instantly checking the street, which was invariably deserted. He heard a siren one time, but it wasn't close, it was someone else's drama. As he watched the street lights make orange patterns on the wet tarmac he knew the hopelessness of his position. The need for revenge still burned strongly in him, and he would try to kill Stellachi if he could, but what then?

Mark dozed again and when he woke this time the glow outside was not so strong, as the sky lightened, and dawn was half an hour away. Grey streaks were already seeping into the edge of the sky, and the rain had stopped.

Making sure that Kelly was still dead to the world Mark checked his guns. Two empty chambers in the Smith and Wesson, a full magazine in the 9mm. Thinking of his mother and all that he had surrounded her with in the past, he knew it wasn't a good idea to go down there. Yet he felt the need to see her, to reunite for maybe the last time the remnants of the Richards family. He was surprised how strongly he felt this.

Mark put both weapons into his holdall, stepped quietly past Kelly and went into his shower room where he dashed some water in his face. He didn't use Kelly's towel. Stubble was sprouting up everywhere but he couldn't be bothered to shave. He began to wake up and wanted to clean his teeth but he'd forgotten to pack any toothpaste. No point looking for any in Kelly's fetid empire. So he just pushed a wet brush around a few times. It was better than nothing. He needed to put every sense on full alert now, or he'd be out of this game very quickly. Surprise had been on his side, but it was gone now.

Mark checked his money. What he'd paid out to Kelly had already made a hole in it. There was some in the bank and he had a credit card he rarely used. That had always been Lena's territory. He'd never even taken money from bank machines, there was too much native distrust for leaving a trail in him.

Kelly was catching flies, his open mouth revealing graveyard teeth in various shades of brown, and a tongue that was like a small pink snake moving amongst them. He'd probably wake up mid-morning, and get up midday. First thought would be a drink and a smoke, first action would be a drink and a smoke, and the same day would start up again. It had started up again for the last twenty years of this man's life. Mark put another twenty under the Irishman's chin and let himself out.

It had freshened up outside, mugginess had been replaced by a cooling breeze and the sun was getting up, early morning yellow bright, but not yet too hot. Like Kelly, this time of day had been almost unknown to Mark when he was growing up, but he'd come to like it. Even if fresh starts had usually been lying bastards for him, he was not so far gone he couldn't appreciate a sense of renewal. It was good to know that losing Lena, and killing Agani, had not taken this away completely. Even here, in the midst of eight million souls, he could think this, though Mark also knew this time of day was also a sham, for it hid all the punters, their mess, frustrations and rage. Nature had given the street a wash and brush up before people could get at it again.

Mark went out the back of Kelly's place, where he could cut across several blocks for the next tube station. He took the first train that came in, and crossed the city to Paddington, where a just-on-duty and already pissed-off man sold him a ticket for Cardiff. One way.

He had almost an hour to wait. It was Sunday. If anyone was watching him he wasn't aware of it. He hadn't been to Paddington for a while. A lot of money had been spent on it. New metal was everywhere, the station's guts had been replaced with aluminium structures, industrial style, he thought it was called, in an attempt to rid it of its old grimy look, though the roof was still the same. There was a sushi bar, not yet open, which made him think how times were changing. Times changed but not people. There were the usual weekend lost around, dossers, drunkards, people who had no reason to be here other than to shelter, and kill time.

Mark bought coffee and a roll, and a Sunday paper, the type that splashed tits and rubbish on its front. Lena would have been splashed here also if she'd been found. He imagined her cover shot, one of the best the agency could provide, good enough to interest the most jaded palette, men would eagerly turn to the additional pages inside, which would attempt to spin out her mysterious life in a few paragraphs. Shock, horror, and sex for wankers.

Mark sat in a corner that gave him the widest viewpoint while protecting his back. Gunslinger mentality. He thought about his killing of Agani. In his wild years he'd often thought what it would be like to take a life, and what it would do to the inside of his head. The answer was very little. There was just a sense of calm, of the inevitability of his action, even that it had been a natural thing to do. For Lena. He still couldn't control himself, not when pushed past a certain point. He'd worked on his anger since being banged up, and when Lena came along he'd thought he'd got the better of it, but background will out. Mark knew it now, and was glad, for background would be needed. These bastards had killed Lena and made him a murderer. Nice work for one weekend, but they'd already paid a price. What did he have to lose now, maybe all his life he'd been heading towards this point.

Mark was jerked out of his thoughts. Kelly was approaching him, at least he thought it was Kelly, for a moment. No, just a look-alike. Another man who'd lived inside a bottle for years. Same wasted face, same stink of old booze, same shuffling gait. Running on empty.

‘Got a bit of change, mate?' the man asked.

Mark looked at him suspiciously and checked everything in his vision.

‘Just for a cuppa tea, like.'

Mark felt for change and threw a pound coin towards him. His other hand was in his holdall, closing on the automatic. The man made a seal-like attempt to catch the pound, flailing his hands uselessly, but managed to put his foot on it to stop it rolling away. He had rivals in the station. Mark expected them to gather round him like pigeons as his train was announced.

‘Cheers, guv.'

Mark made his way towards the train. He wondered if he would ever see Kelly again. Suddenly there was a sense of loss. It would have been laughable a few days ago, but Lena had changed everything.

Mark looked through the paper. It was full of sex and death, he wondered if there was anything else in the world. It told of tragic, violent and hopeless lives, but Lena's wasn't there, nor Agani's. He wondered how many others went unreported. All the underground tales of hoodlums buried in motorway concrete, in the sea, in the ground, seemed relevant now. This weekend told him it must be true. The country must be laced with its illicit dead.

Mark got on the train. There was no one sitting within ten seats of him. A few kids were down the other end, a woman with a baby, but that was it. Not many people wanted to head west this early today. He thought it safe to sleep, and did so fitfully, but alert to any movement or stop of the train, catching the odd patch of country in the corner of his eye. He wouldn't stay with his mother for more than a few hours, it was too dangerous. With the network these people had, Julie might already be in danger anyway. Blowing Agani away had seen to that. The more Mark thought of this, of the problems of protecting her, of even telling her about this mess, the more the nerve tapped. He was about to bring down another incredible load of shit on her, no more his fault than the last, but it still flowed through him. The nerve flexed against the side of his head, he rubbed along it with his hand and it felt like a skipping rope. The pain it caused followed the rhythm of the train, flexing every few seconds. The baby of the woman a few seats down started to cry, as if in sympathy. The mother tried to comfort it but it was determined to wail.
I know how you feel, kid, Mark thought.

*

It was always hard for Kelly to come back to the land of the living. Each morning, or afternoon, his body found it more of a struggle. It knew that it didn't make sense any more, for living had become a grey line he crawled along, like a slug. Nothing too sharp, nothing too dull. Nothing too kind, nothing too human. Often nothing at all. Sometimes he wished life would let him go, before his organs packed up and a lifetime's abuse started to really punish. At his lowest ebb he thought of doing it himself but still had too much of the old faith in him, and too much cowardice. He hadn't been truly sober for twenty-five years but in rare moments of lucidity it amazed him how much his body had taken, and how tough his bony frame was. He was quite proud of his record in a way. Whenever he saw something in the papers about famous drunks he always related to them, feeling a kind of solidarity. When he could keep out the black dog of his depression Kelly became quite comfortable with his state, and shame and guilt vanished. Sometimes, when he came round, he'd think he was back in Donegal, under the big sky, where life was green and fresh, even hopeful, as he dreamed of crossing the water and making his fortune in the building trade. Coming home to buy a pub, his own watering hole, his badge of success in the community.
Kelly's Place.
Maybe even meeting a girl. These half-sleep, half-waking thoughts of Donegal brought on a calm within. They made him feel like another drink.

Kelly was going through this routine, thinking that it was Sunday and that every day was Sunday for him, when Angelo appeared over him. One moment Kelly was blinking in the clear light of his homeland, next it was being blocked out and he was yanked up by a powerful hand.

‘Jesus and Mary, what's goin' on?'

‘You are Kelly. You know Mark Richards. Where is he now?'

Kelly instantly felt sick. Bile tasted of sour whisky as it rose from his gut and fear ran all over him like ants as his eyes focused on the big man leaning against the door. This one spat on his hands and smiled. Angelo pulled him from the bed and pushed him down on the chair.
Play for time and act stupid
. It had been his one defence in times like this, and there had been a few dangerous moments on the street over the years. Fuck it, he knew getting Mr Richards that car would mean trouble. Something hadn't been right all weekend, but these guys weren't the police. Never in a million years.

Angelo slapped him across the face, his hand hardly moved but it was enough to jerk his head back and make it reel. He felt like he'd been kicked by a horse, and a rotten tooth crumbled.

‘I can't hear you, my friend,' Angelo said, his voice barely above the level of a whisper.

‘Richards?' Kelly answered, wiping the blood from his face with the back of his hand. Angelo had caught his nose, making his eyes water, and two thin streams of blood run down his face.

‘Kelly, Kelly, we are not going to be stupid, are we? You do things for him, we know. This weekend you done bigger things. Let him stay here. That's okay, I understand. He's your friend, eh? Friendship is good, no?'

Angelo nodded to the big man and turned Kelly's head towards him.

‘He is
my
friend, but not nice like me. Not nice at all. He likes to hurt people, he'd like to hurt you right now.'

Angelo pressed close to Kelly. They were almost cheek to cheek.

‘Think of the pain. You are a small man, a thin man. He'll break you up, piece by piece. He'll start here.'

Angelo held Kelly's scrawny arm in his hand, displaying it to the big man.

‘Yes, I know, you are frightened. I would also be frightened of him.'

No you wouldn't, Kelly thought, you fucking wap bastard. You've never been frightened like I am now. He felt his bladder getting ready to empty and tried to stay as motionless as he could, but couldn't keep the shake out of his body. His eyes continued to water, and he kept muttering
oh Jesus
. Like a prayer.

‘I'm gonna be sick,' he muttered.

Angelo stepped away from him for a moment. Kelly was in a bad situation. He really didn't know anything but they didn't want to hear this. If he made something up they might know it was bullshit. These bastards were pros, like Mr Richards. He hated the Welshman now, for getting him into this, and he didn't even know what the fuck
this
was. He couldn't think, there was a ringing in his ears and by Christ he needed a drink. There was a half bottle of cheap whisky on table and some still left in a glass from last night. Kelly looked at it as if it was the Holy Grail. If he was a lizard he could snake out a tongue, just to get a taste.

‘Ah,' Angelo sighed, ‘you'd like a drink, eh? Maybe later.'

Angelo beckoned to the big man, who spat on his hands and smiled. He stepped closer.

Mark woke as the train entered the Severn Tunnel. For a moment he thought it was night. He felt inside his holdall for the guns. His hand closed around the automatic, which fitted snugly into it, unlike the Smith and Wesson, which was not quite so well balanced. A good enough tool of destruction though, powerful, and to the point. He'd found that out in Agani's flat. There'd be no trace of Agani now. They'd have taken him for a quick trip down to the Kent coast in the boot of a car, probably his own, then a short boat ride and an insignificant splash. Sinking down, his money and power over in the pull of a trigger. Mark wished now that he'd shot him in both knees and left him alive, that would have been more lasting.