The Evil And The Pure (31 page)

Gawl still couldn’t believe how perfectly everything had worked out. Being there
when the girl blackmailed Clint, seizing the moment, dragging Clint after her, the dealer amazed and gratified when Gawl showed him that he didn’t have to be anyone’s whipping horse, trailing after Gawl like a puppy. Even in Gawl’s wildest fantasies it had never played out so smoothly. This morning Clint Smith didn’t know who Gawl McCaskey was — now Clint hung on his every word.

They’d ducked into a local pub after the incident in the car park, Gawl forcing a few shots down Clint despite his protests,
to keep him on a high. When he saw Clint’s face turning a green shade, he switched to beer and slowed down. It was over the beer that Gawl told Clint his name and how he came to be in the church. “I know Fr Seb. I set him up with girls.”

“I thought priests were celibate.”

Gawl almost choked on his laughter. “Ye think a fucker who’ll snort any shit ye gi’e him stops there? Does he fuck.
You
get him high,
I
get him laid.”

“How do you know that I deal to him?”

“He talks, I listen. I watch too, always good t’ know what people are up t’. I saw ye weeks ago in the church. Enquired after ye, thought ye might be a cop, out t’ bust the horny fucker. When I learnt who ye were, I relaxed, but kept an eye open, worried ye might attract trouble. That’s why I was eavesdropping. When I heard that wee bitch trying t’ make shite of ye, I couldn’t let her away with it. That would have been bad for you, and what’s bad for you is bad for Fr Seb, and what’s bad for Fr Seb is bad for me.”

“So you didn’t leap to my rescue ou
t of the goodness of your heart.”

“Did I fuck,
” Gawl laughed. “Always look out for number one. If ye can help others, fine, but first help yerself.”

A few more pints, Gawl telling Clint about his past, presenting himself as a man of the world who’d seen and done it all, who had no time for the
trappings of wealth. “Beer and pussy are all a man needs.” Not mentioning that fighting was essential too, didn’t want to give Clint the impression that he was overly violent.

When Clint was gri
nning drunkenly, Gawl led him to Brown’s. Clint had been there a few times before but not often, no interest in the strippers, just in dealing, and strip joints not the best places to deal, most of the clients fixed on the women, sharp-eyed bouncers ready to bust you if they caught you working. Tonight was different. Feeling powerful after putting the would-be blackmailer in her place, he also felt horny. Wolf-whistled when he walked in and saw a half-naked girl on the small stage, twirling round a pole. Gawl steered him to the front, pushing others out of the way, ignoring their angry grunts. While Clint gawped, Gawl went to the bar and ordered pints. The champagne came later, when it was Clint’s turn to buy. Gawl didn’t like champagne – a woman’s drink – but acted as if he did, let Clint spend big, toasting the young dealer, laughing as they quaffed, Clint getting seriously drunk, Gawl staying in control.

After several private dances and way too much champagne,
Clint staggered off to the toilets to throw up. Gawl gazed around the club while Clint was absent, figuring his next play, wanting to keep the night alive, cement his friendship with Clint. Hit on the solution without too much hassle — get Clint laid.

He caught Clint as he was weaving back to the bar to order another
bottle of champagne. Spun him towards the exit. “Where we going?” Clint mumbled.

“
A place where we won’t just have t’ look,” Gawl laughed.

Taking Clint on a long walk, the night air good for him, clearing his head. He got sick again, puked against a wall, groan
ed miserably when he was finished. Gawl spotted an off-licence, left Clint leaning against the wall, went and bought two cans of cider. Made Clint drink, even though he choked on his first mouthful. Poured it down him to line his stomach and keep him going for another few hours.

There were a number of local brothels Gawl could have taken Clint to, but he led him
to Susy-Lee’s on the far side of Whitechapel, one of Fr Sebastian’s favourite spots, the girls not as young as the priest liked, but willing to experiment. Susy-Lee herself was there to greet them, a gargantuan ex-hooker. Like many fat women, her smile was beautiful. “Who’s your friend?” she asked as Gawl sat Clint in a chair. He was staring about uncertainly at the adverts for sun beds, manicures, facials and massages, not sure in his drunken state if this was a knocking shop or a legitimate beauty parlour.

“His name’s Clint,” Gawl said. “He wants a good time.”

“Who doesn’t?” Susy-Lee laughed. “Any special requirements?”

“No.” Gawl lowered his voice, making sure Clint couldn’t hear. “Just make sure he gets his fucking hole. I don’t want him coming away
dissatisfied, right?”

“I’ll set one of my best girls on it,” Susy-Lee said. “Anything to drink?”

Gawl studied Clint. His head was bobbing left and right, eyelids drooping, stomach heaving every time he breathed. “Just bring him some water.” He saw Susy-Lee’s frown. “Don’t piss yerself. I’ll tell him it’s vodka and ye can charge him full whack.”

“You’re a gentleman, Mr McCaskey,” Susy-Lee smiled and went to fill a shot glass with tap water.

Clint lost his nerve when the pretty, thin, black-haired girl took his hands and tried pulling him to his feet. Remembering the last few times he’d tried to have sex, the failures. Mumbled something about having to go home. Gawl tried to laugh away his fears and force him to go with the girl.

“You don’t understand,” Clint whined. “I can’t.” Tears came to his eyes and Gawl realised what the problem was.

“Problems down below?” Gawl chuckled. “We’ve all had ’em. Can’t let that stop ye.”

“But…” Clint thumbed away tears, still hesitating.

Gawl hissed, “Remember earlier. Things are different now. Ye’re strong, not weak. Women will do what ye tell ’em t’. Doesn’t matter what happened before. Ye’re a new man now. Ye don’t take shit from anyone.”

Clint’s eyes cleared slightly
. His jaw firmed. He nodded and went with her.

Gawl
waiting for Clint in the lounge when he came back. “What was that like?”

“Brilliant,” Clint mumbled
, meaning it, no trouble this time, failures forgotten, a man once more. But his eyelids were heavy — he was ready for bed now.

Gawl took money from him to pay Susy-Lee
for the drinks, asked her to arrange for a taxi, and rode home – Clint’s – with him. Clint fell asleep in the taxi and didn’t wake when they got out, so Gawl had to drag him up the stairs, fish for the keys in his pocket, carry him into his flat and put him to bed, laying a bowl on the floor beside him, not bothering to undress him, Clint’s clothes filthy and stinking, so what did it matter if he puked all over them.

Clint seen to, Gawl opened
the front door to leave. Paused and thought about what Clint would feel like in the morning. He grinned sadistically — the hangover would serve the little whinger right. His grin turned thoughtful. If Gawl stayed, he could nurse Clint through the worst of his suffering, help clean up the mess, provide him with drinks – warm water and milk – cook for him in the afternoon, get painkillers if he didn’t have any in stock. More importantly, as Clint’s head cleared, be on hand to persuade him they’d done nothing wrong, the bitch had it coming, she wouldn’t tell anyone, make sure he didn’t panic and flee London ahead of an imagined posse, remind him that he was strong.

Gawl closed the door from the inside and went in search of blankets. Found some in a closet. Took them into the TV room, covered the couch with them, undressed and slipped
beneath, naked, warm, happy. Lying in the darkness, planning the day ahead, how he’d nurse Clint through it and get him ready for another night on the town, smiling as he thought of his new role in life,
Florence fucking Nightingale!

THIRTY-THREE

The lab, early afternoon, Big Sandy in the control centre with three technicians, all in plain clothes, chatting quietly to
one another. The control centre was a large room near the rear of the building, connected to all the cameras and security devices in the lab, operatives constantly monitoring the situation, making sure everything ran smoothly, keeping watch on the hounds, observing Phials and his staff at work. There were a few blind spots – sectors in the basement, the sauna, Phials’ bedroom and primary work station (an office come mini-lab where he did most of his formulating) – but not many. The Bush had tried installing hidden cameras in Phials’ living and working quarters several times but the chemist always rooted them out, the equal of all the Bush’s experts.

Big Sandy’s mobile
was in his left hand, tiny between his chunky fingers, waiting for Fast Eddie to contact him when Phials left his bedroom. The chemist a late starter, not shuffling down to work until two or three p.m. most days. No telling how long he’d work for when he rose, it could be an hour, six, twelve — no set pattern.

The
mobile finally rang. “Yeah?”

“He’s locked himself in his office and is hard at it,” Fast Eddie said.

Big Sandy nodded curtly at the technicians. They stopped chattering and followed him through the corridors to Tony Phials’ bedroom. This wasn’t just where Phials slept. He spent most of his time here when not at work, watching TV, reading, writing. He kept a daily journal in a drawer near his bed, poems, stories, reminiscences. Fast Eddie had photographed much of the journal for the Bush to have examined, in case the entries were some form of code, but there was nothing cryptographic about them, just the scribbles of a bored man trying to fill the long hours between work and sleep.

The walls of Phials’ bedroom were lined with stacked bookshelves and it was to these
that the technicians beelined, spreading out wordlessly, each taking a section, working methodically from bottom to top, left to right, removing one book at a time, slowly riffling the pages, checking each page for notes or marks, then examining the spines and covers. When satisfied that no secrets were hidden within a book, they’d replace it exactly as it had stood and move on to the book next to it. Each man wore thin transparent gloves and a mask, careful not to even breathe on the books in case they left any kind of evidence.

They’d been working on the books for four days, Big Sandy standing guard, in touch with Fast Eddie, ready to move them out at a second’s notice if he got word that Phials was returning. Big Sandy knew they were searching for a secret formula which the Bush thought Phials was keeping from him, but he wasn’t sure what the formula
was for. Guessed it was some new type of drug, but he didn’t much care, not his business.

As disinterested as Big Sandy was, he paid absolute attention to the technicians while they worked. The Bush
had been very clear about that. The formula was of the utmost importance to Dave Bushinsky and he didn’t trust anyone who might be in a position to exploit it. “Watch them like a hawk,” he’d told Big Sandy. “If they write anything down, take it from them before they leave. If they photograph something, grab their cameras. If they spend longer looking at one particular book than another, take it from them, put it back on its shelf, get them out of there and call me immediately.”

Before the technicians hit the books, the Bush had sent in surveillance experts to scour the room for hidden panels or caches. They’d examined the bed, pillows, wardrobes, drawers, floorboards, TV, CD player, ceiling, window ledges, bath, sink, shower, working slowly and deliberately, Big Sandy watching over the
m. That had taken almost a week — nothing to report. At night, while Phials slept, a second team worked in his office, presided over by another of the Bush’s most trusted men. Big Sandy hadn’t asked how they were progressing, but he imagined they’d enjoyed no more luck than his own agents. The Bush would have called off the search here if he’d found what he was after there.

Three hours and thirty-eight minutes into the latest
search, Big Sandy’s phone rang, Phials on his way up. Big Sandy ushered out the technicians without any fuss and they returned to the control centre, where they’d wait in case Phials went back to work later, the technicians talking softly among themselves, Big Sandy sitting silently nearby, inhumanly patient, an unfeeling machine when he was working.

While Big Sandy and the technicians were taking up their accustomed posit
ions in the control centre, Tony Phials entered his room and closed the door, leaving Fast Eddie to stand watch outside. He took off his clothes, walked through to his
en suite
and showered. Drying himself, he returned, naked, and drifted by the bookshelves where the scientists had been working, casting a cold eye over the books, cautious in case the Bush had installed another camera recently. The Bush’s men were good – damn good – but Phials was a paranoid genius with an eye for the tiniest giveaway details, such as a pillow not lying precisely the way he’d arranged it, the remote control for the TV resting on the dressing table at a sixty-eight degree angle to the TV set when he’d clearly left it at sixty-six degrees, and books standing a few millimetres further in or out than they had been when he last scanned the shelves.