I was alone in the flat, still unable to believe the horror of what Danny had done. My first thought when my mobile rang was that it was him, on to try to sweet-talk me into making peace. A non-starter. His Glass-boys-against-the-world chat was played out. I let it ring a couple of times before answering. Pretending to be drunk wouldn’t be necessary – he’d be well away – and I expected the kind of maudlin apology that was his stock-in-trade with me. It wasn’t going to work.
‘Got nothing to say to you. Not now. Not ever. As far as I’m concerned, I haven’t got a brother.’
On the other end of the line I heard him breathe.
‘Do you understand? You, me, and all that “Team Glass” shit. It’s over.’
Nothing.
‘Come on. Haven’t you done enough damage? Stop fucking about.’
Only two people had my number: Danny and Mandy. I didn’t recognise the caller ID.
The breathing was a gentle breeze in my ear, unhurried and even.
I lost it completely. ‘You’re sick, do you know that? You need help.’
Silence.
‘Who the fuck is this? Who the fu—? Anderson, is this you?’
I threw the phone away, rattled and angry. It landed on the couch in front of the fire. I went after it and pressed redial to hear a recorded voice tell me the number I was calling was unobtainable. Fear crawled in my belly. My fingers searched for the reassurance of the gun. I checked the door was locked, turned out the lights, and listened. From the window, the road outside was quiet apart from my police shadow parked fifty yards away. Light from the streetlamps splashed the pavement and a black cat picked its way carefully along the wall on the other side, hunting for whatever it could find.
Someone was playing mind games with me.
Normally, I’d have assumed it was kids having a laugh or some drunk with a wrong number and not given the call a second thought. But, added to the door handle turning and the feeling someone had been watching me since I came out of prison, it was impossible not to be spooked. Xanax was an option. Instead, I poured a whisky, considered waking up my policeman pal and decided against it – they already had me down as a nutter.
I searched for a scrap of reality to cling to. Something to convince me I wasn’t losing it. The reasoning part of my brain reminded me that coming out of prison is a freaky experience: everything is different; the world has moved on.
All very good. Only my gut didn’t agree.
Since I’d come out of prison, it had been madness. Making sense of it wasn’t easy and tonight Danny’s gloating admission about the fire hit me harder than anything since Cheryl and Rebecca died. With them, there had been a way to give the rage a voice – and Albert had gone off a high-rise. But there was no angry response to dull this, no action with the power to redress the thing he’d done in our name.
I’d known him better and longer than anybody on the planet. What he was capable of wasn’t news to me, or, at least, it shouldn’t have been, because I’d seen it: when he was no more than a teenage thug, beating the defenceless Indian to death outside his shop. Over the years, I’d somehow managed to convince myself the inhumanity in his eyes that afternoon had been a one-off and gone along with his ‘Team Glass’ myth.
The awful scene in his office when the text and video had come through filled my brain: Danny’s face, bloated with rage; the dulled sound of his skull hitting the wall, oblivious to the pain; and me wrestling him to the floor, holding on ’til the fever was spent and he was lying quietly in my arms. The strong older brother was more fragile than I’d known, a step away – maybe less – from total mental collapse. Witnessing a human being disintegrate emotionally was the worst thing I’d ever seen.
Not an excuse for what he’d done tonight. Not even close.
Before the YouTube video he’d been a cruel man; after it, he became a monster.
The fire would be all over the TV News.
I wouldn’t be watching.
Not sticking to what I’d agreed with myself during those nights in Wandsworth prison when all I could think about was Cheryl and Rebecca was the biggest error I could’ve made. Once again, I’d let Danny talk me into doing what I didn’t want to do with his Team Glass bollocks.
The cash he’d casually tossed on the table in the pub, the bank account, the car – all of it, even Mandy – were no more than shiny objects designed to distract and make me forget why I’d decided I was out. I’d always loved him. He was my brother. But I didn’t kid myself he was any better than Albert or Rollie. The business they were in was a dirty business, and anyone foolish enough to get involved ended up with blood on their hands.
His tame policeman had found that out the hard way. And what I’d seen on his face as he’d passed me on the office stairs tonight had mirrored what I felt. He’d sworn he’d been in the dark about Anderson’s attack on the King Pot. Then, I wasn’t sure I believed him. I believed him now, all right. Danny had taken all of us – me, him and Anderson – by surprise. Nobody could’ve predicted my brother would do what he’d done. It was too awful to even consider.
Everything I’d wanted for myself had turned to shit. If Anderson had only waited ’til I’d quit Team Glass before making his move, life would be very different.
I resisted the option to fill a tumbler with whisky and drink until the bottle was empty or I passed out – whichever came first. Too easy. I deserved to suffer. Maybe it was some sense the night wasn’t over. So instead, I made coffee and sat in the lounge, trying not to picture the hellish scene inside the Picasso Club, cursing myself for the idiot I’d always been where my brother was concerned. The minute the video had gone out on YouTube I should’ve realised there would be a push-back from Danny unlike anything I was able to imagine.
A knock on the door startled me, jangling my already frayed nerves. The sound came again, louder, demanding. My first thought was that Rollie Anderson had come to finish his vendetta. I picked up my old cricket bat, feeling the heaviness of its spine in my palm, and flung open the door.
It wasn’t Rollie.
He saw the bat in the air above my head and blurted out his explanation before I brained him.
‘This address was all I could get out of her. She said a name, over and over. Luke. That you?’
‘That’s me. Who the hell’re you?’
‘The taxi driver who took her to the pub.’ He shook his head. ‘I warned her it was no place for a woman on her own. Wouldn’t let my wife go near it during the day, never mind at night.’
His arm was round Mandy’s waist, holding her upright. Her head lolled to one side and her mouth was open: the cream blouse she’d been wearing hung in tatters, exposing her breasts, and there was a red welt on her cheek and bruises at her eyes where somebody had hit her. She was unconscious.
I lowered the bat and went to her.
‘Found her lying on the pavement fifty yards from where I’d dropped her off earlier. She’d dragged herself out of an alley. Swear to God I thought she was dead. Reckon she’s been given a Mickey.’
Drugging women to have sex with them was beyond my understanding. Pervs who did it deserved to have their balls cut off, dipped in chocolate, and fed to them on a spoon.
‘Which pub was she in?’
‘The Shark’s Mouth. D’you know it?’
‘Not yet, but I will.’
We got Mandy inside and onto the bed. The driver had done his Good Samaritan bit and was anxious to get away. I thanked him and held out one of Danny’s fifty-pound notes. ‘For your trouble.’
He turned it away. ‘No, thanks, mate. I’ve got daughters – three of them – young enough to do what they’re told, thank God. Still, you can’t help worrying, can you? Maybe I should’ve taken her to hospital.’
‘You did the right thing. By the way, did you call me ten minutes ago?’
He didn’t know what I was talking about.
‘Not me, mate.’
At the door he handed me his card. ‘If you need help sorting the bastard out, give me a call.’
The driver was an ordinary guy who probably worked eighty hours a week to get by. I appreciated his offer though I wouldn’t be taking him up on it. What had to be done was a pleasure I wouldn’t be sharing with anybody.
When he’d gone, I sat on the edge of the bed and held Mandy’s hand. Her pulse was slow, her breathing deep and even like a child’s. Red hair fell across her pale face and I allowed myself to imagine she was sleeping. Then my finger drew the strands aside and uncovered the welts underneath, already changing colour, darkening to purple, yellowing at the edges, and the anger in me raged.
My knowledge of Rohypnol, or whatever he’d slipped into her drink, was limited to what I’d heard in Wandsworth. Cons called them ‘roofies’ and told stories they considered funny about how effective they were mixed with alcohol. Men with sisters and wives and daughters on the outside didn’t laugh.
Thanks to me, Danny had another victim to add to his despicable night’s work – the second he threw Mandy out I should’ve decked him and left him to it. If I had, Mandy wouldn’t have gone to the Shark’s Mouth and crossed paths with whoever had done this to her. But I hadn’t. I’d let her go, humiliated and alone: the fault was mine.
Beside the bed the chair was hard and far too small for somebody my size. Getting comfortable wasn’t going to happen. I turned out the light and settled for listening to the rise and fall of her breathing in the darkness. When she woke up, I’d be there.