Happy Days (37 page)

‘Fuck you,’ he said softly. ‘Fuck the lot of you.’

He’d been in situations like this before, often with the 6.57. You were chasing some rival firm or other. You thought your mates were behind you. You went steaming round the corner only to find yourself in a cul-de-sac, surrounded by hostile faces just itching to kick you to pieces. The odds against were enormous. The immediate future held nothing but pain. You were probably crapping yourself. But you never let the bastards see it.

‘Who’s first then?’ Mackenzie had adopted the punchy crouch he remembered only too well.

There was a stir of movement in the darkness. No one knew quite what to do next. Then the kid in the Pompey top, the one who’d done the damage back at the hotel, told Mackenzie he’d been out of order.

‘When, son?’

‘Lunchtime. Outside the nick. What you said.’

‘I said you were all losers. Am I wrong?’

‘Yeah. Cos we ain’t. We might be loads of things but we ain’t losers.’

There was a general murmur of agreement. Another kid wanted to know what Mackenzie was doing in politics.

‘You was a right laugh once. Don’t understand that.’

‘Maybe I mean it. Maybe I want to make things better. Have a bit of a sort-out. Put tossers like you lot back in your fucking kennels.’ He peered round, trying to make eye contact, trying
to shorten the odds against a serious beating. ‘So who’s going to offer me out then? Any volunteers? Anyone up for it?’

There were no takers. Then Makins tried to bolt. He got as far as the gleam of light on the pebbles beyond the pier before three of the kids hauled him back. He was still struggling when a couple of them punched him to the ground and began to kick him around the head and shoulders.

Mackenzie didn’t hesitate. He pushed past the stone thrower and dragged the kids off. The one doing the real damage was way bigger than Mackenzie. Bazza spun him round and drove his forehead into his face. He felt bone splintering under the force of the blow and the kid fell back, his broken nose pumping blood.

His mates turned on Mackenzie. Bazza lashed out, catching the nearest one on the side of his head, sending him sprawling, but he was too slow and too old to get them all. Curled up beneath the blur of flailing limbs, he tried to protect his head and groin. He felt a sharp pain under his eye. A blow to his ribs drove the breath from his lungs. Another caught him on the side of the knee. Then, as suddenly as it had kicked off, the kids had gone – tramping away over the pebbles – and all he could hear was the steady rasp of the incoming tide and that same
drip-drip
from the leak overhead.

He felt for Makins in the darkness, asked him if he was OK. Makins was trembling with shock, his eyes wide in the whiteness of his face, blood around his broken mouth. Mackenzie helped him to his feet. There were taxis back on the seafront. The hotel was down the road. Everything would be fine.

‘Yeah?’ Makins didn’t believe him.

‘Yeah.’ Mackenzie helped him up the drift of pebbles towards the promenade. ‘Welcome to Pompey, son.’

SOUTHSEA: SUNDAY, 11 APRIL 2010

Jimmy Suttle was alone when the front door bell rang. It was five past four in the afternoon. Lizzie and Grace were round at Lizzie’s mum’s in North End and the game had just started. Yesterday’s Premiership results had confirmed certain relegation for Pompey, but today’s semi-final in the Wembley sunshine gave them a chance to salvage a little pride from the wreckage of a disastrous season.

It was Winter at the door. Suttle stared at him. This broke every rule in the book.

‘You’re out of your head coming round here.’ He hustled Winter inside. ‘I thought we had an agreement?’

‘We did, son. You lot broke it.’

He followed Suttle through to the living room and made himself at home on the sofa.

‘You’re staying?’

‘I’ve come for the match.’ Winter beamed. ‘And the company.’

‘You want tea?’

‘No, thanks.’ He nodded at the bottle of Stella beside Suttle’s chair. ‘One of those might be nice.’

Suttle left, returning in moments with another Stella. At Wembley the crowd were roaring on a Spurs attack. Defoe was making for the Pompey goal, but Rocha held him off with a forearm nose-smash.

‘I thought you hated football?’ Suttle tore himself away.

‘I do. But so does Lizzie. Am I right?’

‘Yeah.’

‘So …’ he shrugged ‘… I thought we might have the place to ourselves.’

‘And the footie?’

‘Help yourself, son. Enjoy. We’ve got all afternoon.’

After a frantic start the game settled down. From time to time Winter asked about this player or that, but his real interest seemed to be the state of the club. Like most people in the city, he’d lost track of who owed or owned what. Was it true the club had run out of money? Was there nothing left for oranges at half-time?

‘Not a bean,’ Suttle confirmed. ‘They’ve been in administration since February. You’re looking at monthly wages of over a million quid and nothing left to pay them with. Fuck knows how they got into a state like this. No one’s holding their hands up.’

‘That’s robbery, isn’t it?’

‘Probably. Shit!’ Yebda had just curled a pass into Piquionne. With all the time in the world, the Pompey striker had smashed it into the arms of the Spurs keeper. ‘One–nil that should have been.’

Suttle stole a look at Winter, trying to gauge whether his interest in the game was genuine. Winter was looking at his empty bottle. Suttle fetched another.

‘Mackenzie given you the day off?’

‘He’s up there.’ Winter nodded at the screen. ‘Spot the candidate with the black eye.’

‘You
what?
’

‘A couple of scrotes attacked the hotel last night, ruined Bazza’s day. Needless to say, he chased them down.’

He told Suttle about Makins. X-rays had revealed a couple of broken ribs and a hairline fracture to the skull.

‘You’re serious?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘And Mackenzie’s pressing charges?’

‘Bazza doesn’t do charges. I gather he’s called a little meet for tomorrow night – 6.57 reunion. Leo Kinder knows a thing or two about the Third Reich. He thinks it’s the Brownshirts all over again.’

‘Brownshirts?’ For the time being Suttle had given up on the game.

‘Hitler’s private army. Bunch of Bavarian thugs who did the biz for the young Adolf. Bazza thinks you can always learn from history, and maybe he’s right.’

Suttle’s gaze returned to the screen. It was nearly half-time.

‘So where are you in all this?’

‘With Bazza you mean?’

‘Yeah.’

‘I’m where I always was. I’m the guy with the whistle, trying to keep some kind of order. At this rate, son, you won’t need Skelley. Just wait for Bazza to self-destruct.’

‘You’re telling me he’s going after these kids?’

‘Yeah. And let’s hope he means it. Number one, he might kill a couple, which would make a promising start. And number two, you lot might notice, which means we could all get on with our lives.’

‘But seriously …’

‘Seriously, I doubt it. He might put the word around. A couple of the kids might end up at A & E. But Kinder’s no fool, and he’s telling Bazza to behave.’

‘And Mackenzie listens?’

‘Kinder’s the key to Pompey’s door. That’s the way Bazza figures it. So of course he listens.’

The players were trooping off the pitch. One end of the stadium was a sea of blue. Not to have conceded by half-time was definitely a result.

Winter found the remote and killed the sound. Then he told Suttle they had to sort a deal.

‘For who?’

‘Me.’

‘We’re talking
Gehenna
?’

‘Of course we are. How long is half-time?’

‘Fifteen minutes.’

‘Perfect.’ He produced an envelope from his pocket. Inside was a DVD. Suttle stared it.

‘Beginski?’

‘Yeah.’ Winter nodded. ‘Help yourself.’

The game had restarted by the time Suttle was through with the interview. The last time he and Winter had met, at the safe house up in Surrey, he’d sensed that the expedition to Lublin had been successful. Now he knew that
Gehenna
was looking at a giant step forward.

‘I can keep this?’ Suttle had retrieved the DVD.

‘Of course. I’ve got copies.’ Winter smothered a yawn. ‘So what next?’

‘I show it to Parsons. And Willard. We frame up a strategy. Then we call you in.’

‘Wrong, son. That’s what you did before. This time you leave it to me. I do the legwork. I choose the moment to make the approach to Skelley. I decide when and where this whole thing kicks off.’

‘And us? Do we get to play as well?’

‘Of course you do. I keep you informed. I tell you what I need and when I need it. But the pecking order won’t ever be the way it was.’

Suttle smiled. He’d half-imagined a conversation like this but knew it was a non-starter.

‘Willard’s prepared to apologise,’ he said softly. ‘And believe me, that’s a first.’

‘Apologise for what?’

‘For keeping you out of the loop. About Irenka.’

‘Big deal. I don’t want an apology, son. I want control.’

‘They’ll never agree.’

‘Fine.’ Winter drained the second bottle. ‘Mine’s a Stella.’

Suttle didn’t move. On screen Piquionne had just missed another sitter. Pompey supporters had their heads in their hands. At this rate they’d be looking at extra time.

‘Bazza wants to meet this Irenka,’ Winter said. ‘You think she’s up for that?’

‘I’m sure she is. Why the interest?’

‘Because he thinks the way I do. It’s too neat, too convenient. He wants to check her out for himself.’

‘Fine.’ Suttle shrugged. ‘I’m sure she’ll be delighted.’

‘But can she pull it off? Can she
do
it?’

‘Of course she can.’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘Because Covert Ops are choosy when it comes to u/c.’

‘Is she Hantspol? Met? Somewhere else?’

‘I haven’t a clue. And that’s the truth.’

‘You want to find out?’

‘I can try.’

‘Yes please, son.’ Winter waved his empty bottle again.

Suttle fetched another. They watched the remainder of the second half in companionable silence. With the score still 0–0 at full time, the players gathered around their respective managers. Harry Redknapp was taking it easy, the occasional word in a Spurs ear, a pat on the shoulder, a shared joke with a couple of the big defenders. Avram Grant, on the other hand, had gathered his players around him, serious, intense, making point after point with little trademark jabs of his right hand.

‘What’s he saying?’ Winter was intrigued.

‘He’s telling them they don’t get paid for extra time. The administrator’s been on to him. Nothing left in the kitty.’

Winter laughed. Then he told Suttle exactly what he wanted out of
Gehenna
. The fact that Suttle knew Misty and Trude made it a whole lot easier.

‘I want them both taken care of,’ he said.

‘I’m not with you.’

‘You give me a whack of money. Resettlement’s no problem. Neither is ID. I can sort both. But I need the pair of them with me, and that’s going to cost. If there’s any equity left in Misty’s place it’ll end up seized. When that happens she’ll have nowhere to live. And neither will Trude. So …’ he raised an eyebrow ‘… you think that might be a runner?’

‘It’s possible. I can at least try. You got anywhere nice in mind?’

‘Of course I have.’

‘Like to share it?’

‘No.’ Winter shook his head.

Extra time was under way. Twelve minutes later Piquionne at last came good. A beautifully flighted ball from the right wing beat the Spurs central defender. Flat on his arse, he watched Piquionne score with a simple tap-in.

Suttle was on his feet, punching the air. From next door, through the thin walls, came the thunder of feet on bare floorboards and wild cheering. Across the road a woman in a dressing gown had appeared at her front door, waving a Pompey scarf. Even Winter looked impressed.
Gehenna
, for the next fifteen minutes, was history.

Spurs brought on a replacement striker. Gareth Bale was slicing through the Pompey defence, putting in quality cross after quality cross. At the other end Utaka led a break, two against one, with Dindane in support. But his pass was useless, and Dindane’s botched return went straight to a Spurs defender. Finally, minutes later, Dindane atoned by tempting Palacios into conceding a penalty. Prince Boateng stepped up to the plate and slotted it. Two–nil. Game over.

Suttle grabbed his phone and got through to Lizzie. Her mum had insisted on watching the game and had just broken out the sherry. Suttle could hear his daughter in the background. He got Lizzie to put the phone to her mouth. Over the roar of the crowd on the telly Grace was gurgling with contentment.

Suttle made kissy-kissy noises and pocketed his mobile.
Winter was still watching the celebrations. The Pompey players had run to the blue end to salute their travelling support, and the crowd had gone wild. After a while Winter reached for the remote again and lowered the sound. A line in the match commentary had amused him.

‘This guy Prince Boateng. The one who took the penalty. He’s ex-Spurs, right?’

‘Right.’

‘Scored against his own club, yes?’

‘Yes.’

‘Put the game beyond reach?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘Excellent.’ Winter emptied the bottle and got to his feet. ‘Bit of a lesson there, eh?’

Suttle studied him a moment, working it out.

‘That sounds like a threat,’ he said at last.

‘Threat?’ Winter was looking pained. ‘Why don’t you talk to your bosses? He’s there for the taking, son, if we play this my way.’

PORTSMOUTH: FRIDAY, 30 APRIL 2010

Weeks two and three of the campaign weren’t kind to Bazza Mackenzie.

On the Monday after the triumph at Wembley his suggestion of a
Pompey First
photo call with the all-conquering FA Cup team was ignored by the management at Fratton Park.

On the Tuesday a bid to upstage the launch of the Tory manifesto spectacularly misfired when
Pompey First’s
hired launch sprang a leak in Portsmouth Harbour and nearly sank. Bazza, rescued by a tender from HMS
Iron Duke
, kept hammering away at his script but to no avail. When he accused the Tories of preparing to torpedo the aircraft carrier programme – thus shafting hundreds of Pompey dockyard workers – the Portsmouth North candidate, who happened to be a Royal Navy reservist, simply queried his entitlement to voice any kind of view on maritime affairs. This is a guy, she said, who has difficulty staying afloat on a sunny day with no one trying to kill him. Would you seriously entrust the nation’s defence to
Pompey First?