Marcus Hinds gazed out of the grimy window at Bethnal Green High Street. Clifford Hinds, his uncle, joined him, resting his powerful fingers on the window sill. Marcus looked at the heavy gothic lettering on the top joints of the fingers, CLIFF HINDS. When he’d been a child he had wanted his name on his hands like Uncle Cliff and had been annoyed when his dad had pointed out Marcus had six letters.
Marcus wondered how many people had managed to read the message on Uncle Cliff’s knuckles before they had rearranged their face. The last image they would have: the script on his skin as his large fists battered them into unconsciousness.
Nowadays, Uncle Cliff, to Marcus, had become simply Cliff and his gut was massive. His longish hair was still there but he had to wear a pork pie hat at a jaunty angle to conceal his bald patch. But his eyes were as bright and full of amusement as ever and the air of latent violence that hung around him like aftershave was still as strong as ever. Sixty-five now and still as scary as when he’d been in his prime. Right now, though, his eyes were troubled.
‘There’s a warrant out for your arrest, old son, murder.’
‘Shit.’ He turned and paced Cliff’s front room. It didn’t take long. He had a small, neat flat above a shop opposite the Museum of Childhood. If you leaned out of the window you could see the York Hall, home of British boxing. Heavy traffic rumbled outside.
Cliff had been in touch with old friends from Oxford who had police contacts. What he had learned wasn’t good. Now he was looking at the screen of his phone. ‘You didn’t knife him, did you?’ His tone was light, conversational, the kind of way you might ask someone if they’d remembered to buy milk.
‘Do what?’ Marcus was puzzled. ‘No, of course not. I booted him down the stairs. It was self-defence.’
Cliff looked up from his phone at his brother’s son, twenty-five now but looking lost and worried, like a small child almost. He sighed. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Marcus was the golden boy of the family, beating the shit out of people was for those with limited options like himself and his brother, Paul. Paul had wanted Marcus to be the editor of The Guardian.
‘The Old Bill say he died of being stabbed in the leg, femoral artery, he bled out.’
Marcus raised his eyes heavenwards and shook his head wordlessly.
‘You got a drink in here?’
‘In the kitchen.’
Cliff heard a pop as Marcus uncorked the Bell’s and he came back into the room with a tumbler full of Scotch. He sat down heavily on the sofa.
‘Do you want a drink, Cliff?’
The older man shook his head. ‘Nah, mate, I’m fine. I’m on tablets for me heart, have to look after the old ticker.’
Marcus nodded silently. ‘I’m being fitted up.’
‘By that anarchist mob?’ Cliff rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Marcus nodded. ‘By Eleuthera, yeah.’
‘They’d top one of their own just to fit you up?’ Cliff cocked his head questioningly.
‘Yeah, it’s the sort of thing they do, they’re idealists.’ Cliff gave a bark of laughter. ‘Funny old ideals.’
‘Yep.’ Marcus took another drink of Scotch. ‘Probably Georgie’s idea.’
‘That bird you were shagging?’
‘Mm-hm.’ Marcus nodded and drank some more.
‘Well, Marky, you can certainly pick them. Mind you, lovely tits.’ Cliff had met Georgie when he’d come up to Oxford to visit Marcus. The boy had thought that the anarchist girl would be blown away by Cliff’s anti-authoritarian record, that and his disadvantaged, proletarian background. They had hated each other on sight.
‘She’s no anarchist,’ said Cliff, ‘she’s a fucking intellectual snob.’
‘That’s true,’ said Marcus, with feeling.
‘Why would they want to do that anyway?’ Cliff asked. ‘Fit you up?’
‘Because they found out I was a journalist and going to write about them. They’re in bed with a Muslim terrorist group, like IS, Al-Akhdaar. They want to kill a German politician who’s over here.’
‘Oh,’ said Cliff. He shook his head. They had all been so proud of Marcus, still were, the first Hinds to go to university and one of the few members of the family not to be on the wrong side of the law. Who could possibly have imagined it could end up as dangerous as this?
Dangerous and stupid.
Not the way to get to run The Guardian.
‘Why are the anarchists involved?’ asked Cliff.
Marcus continued, ‘Al-Akhdaar don’t have any operatives in Britain, so they’ve contracted the job out to Eleuthera. Al-Akhdaar are bankrolled by IS, they’ve got loads of money and, obviously, loads of weaponry. Eleuthera need both, it’s their chance for glory.’
Cliff shrugged. It was all a bit beyond him.
‘Well, old son, they’re taking fucking liberties, muppets.’ He shook his head. In his youth he’d have got a few trustworthy mates, people like Beard and Malcolm Anderson, and given the anarchists a lesson they would never forget. But he was too old now, like a declawed mangy lion.
‘So, what do you think I should do?’ asked Marcus.
Cliff rubbed his bald patch, he did that these days as a sign he was thinking. ‘Turn yourself in,’ he said simply.
Marcus looked at him in surprise. It was the last thing he thought he’d hear. ‘Do you really think so?’
Cliff laughed loudly. ‘Course I fucking don’t.’ He shook his head at the absurdity of the idea. ‘No, you’re going to go and stay with a bloke I know, I was a mate of his dad’s, cos the Old Bill will be round here soonish looking for you, and I’ll get a message to that woman copper you think you can trust and arrange a meet. You can put your side of the story. That’ll help to a limited extent. I’ll arrange a place to meet that the Old Bill won’t dare raid to get their hands on you.’
Marcus looked at his uncle and felt a surge of affection tinged with relief. It was a huge weight off his shoulders to have someone else deciding what he should and shouldn’t do. Hopefully the files on the memory stick would make it abundantly clear to Melinda Huss the kind of people that Eleuthera were. The information there would prevent the Schneider assassination and with luck all charges against him would be quietly dropped.
His head throbbed but he took another mouthful of Scotch. It was easily the worst day of his life. He was beginning to get some kind of insight into the stresses that Uncle Cliff had faced throughout his life: extreme violence, someone out to get you, and the very real danger of a lengthy prison sentence.
Another day at the office for Uncle Cliff, but not for him.
There was a ring on the doorbell. Marcus looked up in alarm. Cliff made a placatory gesture.
‘It’s Mick the Beard, he’s your driver. I’ll wait here for PC Plod. They’ll go to your mum’s first, then here.’
He went into the hall and Marcus heard voices, then a burly figure in leathers and holding two motorbike helmets followed Cliff into the room. He had a shaved head and a long, curly brown beard streaked with grey. He looked tough and evil in equal measure. Like Cliff he’d been around the block.
‘Mick, this is Marcus.’ They shook hands.
‘Better head off now, Beard,’ Cliff said, ‘before we get company.’
The old biker nodded. ‘Put this on,’ he ordered Marcus.
Marcus took the helmet. ‘Where are we going?’ ‘Up north.’
‘North?’ queried Marcus. Manchester? Scotland? ‘Edmonton.’ That was about three miles away. ‘The
Three Compasses.’
Marcus’s heart sank. ‘Is that…?’
‘Yep,’ said Cliff, grinning. ‘Today’s your day for meeting gangsters.’
Reluctantly Marcus pulled the helmet on and followed the broad back out of the flat and down the stairs.
Just when he thought his day couldn’t get any worse.
The Three Compasses. Home of Dave Anderson, head of one of north London’s leading crime families.