Chapter Twelve

The old Merc was travelling fast. It slammed into the new one, pushing it down the road, until both cars crashed into the wall at the end of the churchyard. Carl’s blew up. A fireball that engulfed both cars. Two smashed lumps of metal locked together like lovers started to burn. Mark saw the big man desperately try to smash the front screen before his face was lost in flame, and there were further explosions as ammunition went off. Angelo’s side of the car was badly mashed and there was no movement at all there. Mark couldn’t see Carl but he heard someone call out. He turned to see Carl fifty yards up the road, crawling along the grass verge, his head like a red rag. Mark ran to him, stuffing his gun back into a pocket. Other people were also running, from the pub further down; even at this range he could see the excitement in the face of the kid-barman, and he was followed by several others.

Mark pulled Carl into the trees, hoping that no one had seen them, and hoped that Julie would have the sense to keep out of sight. If she had any sense left at all, if he hadn’t stripped the last of it from her.

Smoke from the cars plumed into the air. No one got too close but Mark saw the barman using his mobile, shouting into it desperately.

‘Are you all right?’ Mark asked Carl. ‘Where the fuck did you come from, anyway? Christ, I thought you were dead.’

‘Never mind about me. Where’s Julie? I could see she wasn’t in the car, that’s why I crashed the Merc into it. I just pointed it, revved it up and threw myself out the door. Couldn’t think of nothing else to do.’

‘Nothing else was needed, mate. Julie’s OK. She’s in the graveyard.’

Carl sank further onto the ground.

‘Thank Christ,’ he muttered, ‘thank Christ for that. We done it, Mark, we beat the bastards.’

‘Stay here, out of sight,’ Mark said, ‘I’ll go and get Julie.’

Carl looked bad, and didn’t answer. Mark skirted the rear of the church, away from the burning cars and the action around them. Julie was still crouching by the grave of the teacher, shaking and moaning to herself. She seemed unable to move, but at least she was out of sight.

Mark shook her gently.

‘Mam, come on, we gotta get out of here, before we’re seen.’

It took a few moments for Julie to recognise him, as her mind struggled to free itself from her waking nightmare.

‘Just leave me, Mark, I’ve had enough.’

‘Carl’s here.’

‘Carl? He’s dead.’

‘No, he’s not, and he’s just saved our lives. Come on, I’ll carry you.’

It was easier this way. Mark bundled her into his arms, and made sure he kept the church between him and the action. He doubted if anyone had eyes for anything other than the burning cars. He trekked back to the wall and dropped Julie over the other side. They were in the trees with Carl in less than a minute, and as far as Mark could tell, no one had seen them. He looked back on the scene. The kid-barman had gone back to the pub for a small extinguisher, but it was useless. It was hard to distinguish two cars now, let alone anyone in them. Smoke had almost obliterated the church and the pub below, Mark looked down on a war zone. His war.

Maybe the fire would be bad enough to confuse the authorities for a while. They had no reason to expect anything, other than a terrible crash. Two cars, two bodies. The problems would start when they traced the Merc back to Carl, maybe they’d find the remains of a shotgun. There would be no information on the brothers or record of their car which would make the police suspicious, especially as all this had taken place on a quiet valley hillside, but it would all take time, time for all this to be over, as far as Mark was concerned. Creative thinking was not a police strongpoint, he’d learnt that in years of dealing with them, and they had no leads at all on this. He had to keep Carl and Julie out of it, now that they’d survived. Kill or be killed by Stellachi, that was Mark’s aim now. Angelo had talked about the grapevine. It would be shaking itself apart in the next few days.

There was a mixture of old and new blood all over Carl. Old from the original head wound, new from the many cuts, bumps and bruises he’d taken when he’d hit the road. He’s twenty years older than me, Mark thought, tough old sod.

‘Can you walk, Carl?’ Mark asked.

‘Just let me get my breath for a bit,’ Carl answered.

Julie was very quiet. She hugged the ground, shaking like the leaves around her. Mark thought it best to let her be for a while. He’d run out of any words that might help. He heard sirens coming up from the valley. A police car first, then a fire engine not far behind, and an ambulance behind that. The usual convoy of death. The hillside would be buzzing soon, not that anyone would be looking for an ex-con, his mother and her broken-up boyfriend.

‘Come on, let’s move away,’ Mark said. ‘I’ve got a sort of camp a bit further up.’

Carl was able to walk if Mark supported him, but life was draining from his face. It was the colour of a dirty cloud, speckled with dark red spots. An eye was closing and his shoulder looked busted. Mark held him up one side, Julie held on to the other.

They stood in the trees and watched the police pass. How many times had Mark ran from them in the old days, blue lights flashing in the night. Flashing for him. Dashing away from houses with his bag of goods, exhilarated, knowing that the black hillside would hide him, knowing that they never had a snowball’s chance in hell of catching him. Until it all went sour and he let himself be taken. They reached the camp and Mark put Carl down as gently as he could.

‘Just want to sleep for a bit,’ Carl murmured.

‘No, don’t do that, mate. Try to stay awake.’

Julie knelt beside him, rocking back and forth on her heels.

‘You all right, Mam?’

Her eyes just looked over his shoulder. The rain was holding off, but the sun was gone and it was turning cold. A few days ago Mark had sweltered in London. He wondered if he could chance a fire. He doubted that smoke would be noticed, not with what was going on down by the church. Black smoke was still spiralling up in a black funnel. They’d have to separate what was left of the brothers from the metal. Two charcoal lumps to make a pathologist’s Monday.

‘He’s bad, Mark.’

Julie tidied Carl’s hair with her hand.

‘You got any water here?’ she asked.

‘There’s a few bottles.’

Mark handed her one, and she took a tissue from her pocket, dampened it, and tried to clean Carl’s face. Bits of it stuck to his bristles, and made him look worse than ever.

‘I’ll make a small fire,’ Mark said, ‘warm you and Carl up.’

‘Make a fire! Jesus, you’re right back there, aren’t you? Back to when you were a kid, always messing about up here, dodging, thieving, breaking my heart. Why did you come back, Mark? Bring all this down on us.’

‘I’ve been asking myself that, Mam. Because I know this place better than anywhere else, I s’pose, but you’re right, I should have stayed away. Stayed away until it was all over.’

‘We gotta get Carl to hospital.’

‘I know, but we’ll have to stay here for a while, until all the fuss dies down.’

‘He might be dead by then. Why shouldn’t I walk back down there right now, tell the police everything? We’ll be safe then.’

Mark couldn’t think of a good reason that didn’t involve saving his skin, prolonging things, and giving himself the chance to have a crack at Stellachi. Maybe he should phone the police right now, Julie and Carl would be out of it then. It would be an act that didn’t involve putting himself first, rare, but something he had found himself able to do with Lena. Hesitantly at first, like a dog learning a new trick, then it became easier, even enjoyable. He started to grieve for her again. Suddenly the forestry was very calm, the sky cleared of smoke, and the hawk was out again. What a view it must have had of everything that had just gone on. Maybe the explosions had freaked small animals out into the open. Something always gains.

Mark had the mobile in his hands. Just press three numbers, and all this could be over. The police were only a stone’s throw away. His fingers locked as different needs clashed inside him. Even if he made himself scarce when the police came, he’d have no chance of getting at Stellachi. He’d never be able to leave the country when the full story came out, and Stellachi wouldn’t come to him. Not now. Mark wanted this man. Psycho Eyes hadn’t changed that much. Revenge was the only way out of this, revenge for Lena, Kelly, Julie and Carl. Angelo and his brother had died hard, but Mark didn’t feel any sense of retribution, not yet.

‘Carl’s awful cold, Mark,’ Julie said.

‘Probably going into shock,’ Mark muttered. ‘He saved us, Mam. We were going down until he appeared. It’s funny, but that’s the first time any man has ever helped you, isn’t it? Or me, for that matter.’

‘It would have been better if he’d never met me. How can everything turn to shit so quickly? I thought I was getting somewhere, maybe twenty years too late, but he gave me a bit of hope. I thought you were getting somewhere too, Mark.’

‘I was. We both thought we’d found something.’

‘Aye, then you done a Richards on it. Blew everything apart. I can hardly take it all in.’

She doesn’t even know about Kelly, Mark thought, or Tony. They would be the last straw. He put the phone away but made an instant decision.

‘Phone the police, Mam, if you want. Get yourself out of this. You’ve done nothing, and no one going to blame Carl for doing what he did, not if it comes out straight. It’ll be me they want.’

‘I dunno. My head’s shot, but we have to get help for Carl.’

Julie shook Carl gently by the shoulder. ‘Don’ go to sleep, babes.’

Carl moaned and roused himself. ‘I’m bloody cold,’ he murmured. His eyes focused on Mark. ‘Not bad for an old man, eh?’

Mark knelt beside him and kept his voice to a whisper. Not that Julie was listening, she had drawn into herself again, hugging her small body tightly.

‘No, not bad.’

‘Are they dead?’

‘Very.’

‘Feels like I’ve busted a few ribs. That’s okay, I’ve broken them before, and it takes the pain away from my head. And my fuckin’ shoulder.’

‘Do you think you can walk?’

‘Maybe, but not far.’

‘Do you want me to phone for help? Get you and Mam out of it? I’ve got you bad hurt, almost killed the pair of you.’

‘It should have been all right. Those bastards got down here so quick.’

‘Aye, but they’re out of the frame now, and you and Julie, I think. I hope. They’ll still want me, but I’ll go to them now. Take it away from here. This Stellachi is in Amsterdam. I’ll find him. He’ll want me to.’

‘What chance will you have then?’

‘What chance did I have half an hour ago? I’ve got this notebook I took from Angelo. Looks like it’s full of names, numbers, stuff in English, and mumbo-jumbo, Albanian probably. It might be useful.’

‘Julie looks out of it,’ Carl said. ‘Poor kid.’

‘You haven’t answered my question.’

‘Eh?’

‘’Bout phoning the police.’

‘Nah. Unless your mother wants to. We’ve come this far. What I do want you to do is to get me to hospital. I’ll tell them I fell down the stairs. Always useful for people who’ve had a good kicking.’

‘I could call an ambulance.’

‘Look, I’ve had a thump on the head but my brain’s not addled. Not yet. How the fuck could we explain being up here with no bloody car? And it’s too close to what’s just gone down. No. Get a car from somewhere and drive us down to my local hospital. I’ll take it from there.’

‘I don’t know if Mam will hack that. What about the Merc, anyway? They’ll trace it to you.’

‘I’ll say it was nicked last night. Didn’t know for a while because I’ve fallen down the stairs and knocked myself out, haven’t I? It might work. I’ve got no record, why should the police ever know what’s gone on? They might be suspicious, sure, but come on, gunfights, Albanians, none of it sounds real, does it? Julie will be all right, she’ll have to be. We all need time for this to settle. It’s been a hell of a fucking day, kid.’

‘Amen to that. Stay here, then.’

‘I wasn’t about to take the scenic tour.’

Mark got some spare clothing from his shelter. ‘Wrap up with these. You too, Mam.’

Mark turned to his mother. ‘Look, Mam, I’m going to get a car. Stay here with Carl. You got to keep him awake. Don’t let him drift off. He might not come back.’

Julie looked at him like Mark was a stranger. He could still see the young girl in her face, a glimpse of the past, but layered with the worry of the last twenty years. She was quite lined now, and he’d put most of them there. Mark pressed her shoulder gently with his hand.

‘Mam, I’ll keep my mobile on.’

She barely acknowledged him but Carl managed to clench his teeth into a smile.

‘Mark, just like an outlaw bunch, ain’ we?’

‘Aye, just like.’

Mark cut through the forestry, keeping away from the mountain road. He saw more police and ambulances speeding up the hillside, it wouldn’t be much longer before the news-boys got on the scene. They’d have the scoop of their lives if any of this came out. For a mad moment he wondered how much he’d get if he sold the story. Enough to set Julie up for a few years at least. It would be tabloid heaven. Then he thought of that Portland prison, looking through the bars in those poxy dormitories, trying to get a glimpse of the sea, trying to guess what the day was like by smelling the air. Dealing with his fellow inmates, beauts, one and all. No, he’d rather put a bullet in his brain, if it came down to it.

It took him twenty minutes to get clear of the trees. He was on the edge of the old place, but amongst new private housing. There were plenty of cars about, but he took a van. It might be better to put Carl in the back, out of sight. Taking cars had never been his thing, he hadn’t learned to drive until well into his twenties, but Kelly had given him a crash course a few years ago. It was easy, just a quick rearrangement of wires, a child could do it. They did.

He was now a White Van Man for a while, nothing could be more anonymous than that. Any police that passed him on the way back to Julie and Carl wouldn’t give him a second glance; they were far too busy.

It took him a minute to break in and another two to drive the van away. He was soon back on the hillside. Mark pulled the van off the road, as far into the trees as he could. Carl looked better. There was a little more colour in his face but none at all in Julie’s. In the gloom of the trees she looked like a ghost.

‘All right,’ Carl murmured.

‘I’ve got us some transport.’

‘Just get us out of here, Mark.’

Mark carried Carl and propped him up on the seat of the van, covering him with most of the clothes he had. Julie got in on the other side and cradled Carl’s head in her hands. Mark drove to the hospital, a few miles from Carl’s house. Carl drifted in and out of consciousness but Mark thought he had a good chance of pulling through now. What worried him more was Julie, whether she could cope with the questions she might be asked at the hospital. Thank Christ they hadn’t shot Carl. The hospital would be straight onto the police. No, Carl had the right type of injuries, the worst they’d think was that he’d been beaten up by somebody and wanted to keep it quiet. Maybe it wouldn’t go any further. It all came down to Julie now, and who could blame her if she cracked?

‘We’re here,’ Mark said. He drove up to the A & E entrance, parked the van outside and helped get Carl in.

‘He fell down the stairs, remember that,’ Mark said to his mother. ‘Fell down the stairs.’

Seeing the state of Carl, a porter ran out to meet them. Mark let him take Carl from him.

‘Stay with him, Mam. Look, can I have the key to your place? I need to go back there and get straightened up.’

‘Others might come for you.’

‘No, they won’t, Mam. They won’t even know about this, not today, at least.’

Julie fumbled in her pocket, as the porter put Carl in a wheelchair and pushed him into the building.

‘Bloody stupid,’ Carl was muttering. ‘Missed my footing and went straight down ’em. An’ my car’s been bloody nicked an’ all. What a morning.’

‘Here,’ Julie said, ‘take it. Just leave us, Mark. Leave us alone.’

Her face was desperate, and the horror of this day was already being played back in her eyes, but they were still alive.

Mark turned to go, anxious to get the van away. Julie caught at his arm, reached up and hugged him briefly.

‘You’ve topped everything with this,’ she whispered, tears streaming down her face.

‘I know. Look, Mam …’

‘No more words. I have to go in with Carl.’

‘The worst is over now, Mam.’

‘Is it?’

Mark pushed notes into Julie’s hand. She stood at the entrance to casualty as Carl disappeared inside, torn between him and Mark. Ambulances were honking at his obstructing van, so Mark turned away quickly.

As he drove away Mark kept the look on his mother’s face in his mind. He’d seen it many times in the past. In the early days it was able to renew itself with the false hope he’d offered time and again, until it changed, became harder, until it no longer believed anything Mark said. That was how it looked now.

It took Mark an hour to get back to Julie’s place, driving carefully, feeling every roadside camera on him. He left the van half a mile away and walked the rest of the way along the sea front, still smelling of last night’s fire and glad of the air. Quite a few people were about, mainly old. He passed an elderly couple who smiled hesitantly at him. He nodded back, and realised he probably looked quite menacing in his unkempt clothes with the sack slung over his shoulder.

Mark needed to get some sleep and it would have to be in Julie’s flat. Dangerous, but it all depended how much Angelo had communicated with his people. Mark’s hunch was that they had come after him on their own initiative. They wanted a result, good news to present to Amsterdam, and he was too tired to look for anywhere else.

He let himself into the flat, dumped the rucksack by the door, and slumped down on the sofa. There was no message from Julie on the mobile. He thought of checking how Carl was but let it go. Best not to bother her now. He took out Angelo’s notebook and began to thumb through it.

The phone woke Mark up, the notebook falling to the floor as he jumped.

‘I’ve been texting you for hours,’ Julie said. ‘Why haven’t you answered?’

‘Must have fallen asleep. What’s the news on Carl?’

‘He went unconscious as soon as he was inside. They’re operating on him. His head. Something about relieving the pressure on his brain. They said it’s serious but they haven’t told me much. I’m just the girlfriend, aren’t I? They’ve been in touch with his ex, but she hasn’t showed up yet. Perhaps she won’t bother.’

‘Right.’

‘What are we going to do, Mark?’

‘Just sit tight, Mam. It’s over, as far as you and Carl are concerned.’

‘You’ve already said that, and I didn’t believe it then.’

‘Has anyone asked any awkward questions?’

‘Not really. We kept to the story. It was the last thing Carl said before he passed out, ’bout falling down those bloody stairs. If he doesn’t make it, the last thing he said will be a lie.’

‘He will make it, Mam. Believe it.’

‘You’ll be saying you will, next.’

‘I’ll be doing my best.’

‘If Carl hadn’t done what he did, they’d have killed us, wouldn’t they?’

Mark didn’t answer.

‘Wouldn’t they, Mark?’

‘Probably.’

‘Probably!’

‘Okay, yes.’

‘You needed help, Mark, and you’ll need it again. Didn’t you make any good friends in London, anyone who could help. Hide you, even?’

‘Not really. You know me. Anyway, I’ve always been good at hiding myself.’

‘Aye, from a few idiots and half-arsed local cops. Not animals like these.’

‘Maybe the worst is over anyway. They couldn’t have expected anything like this to happen. Could be they’ll let it go, now.’

‘Mark, no more bullshit. My head’s coming round now, I’m starting to go over what’s happened today. Starting to really believe it happened.’

‘Look, Mam, however it pans out, I’ll keep it away from you and Carl. I swear to you, and I’ll be off in the morning.’

Julie was silent, but he could hear her rapid breathing.

‘I’ll phone you before I go,’ Mark said. ‘Stay in a hotel near the hospital for a few days. Use some of that money. They won’t know about Carl or his place, I’m sure. Those two must have followed you from the flat, they’d know about that from Lena. They were working on their own, it wasn’t orders. Trust me, just this one time, Mam.’

Julie turned her phone off quickly. Mark felt like she was turning him off, off and out of her life for good, and there was nothing he could do about it. Except maybe survive.

Mark looked around the flat. There were no photographs of Shane around. He checked her bedroom. None there either, but there was one of him and Julie, when he was about ten. He had a hard glint in his eyes even then, but she still looked hopeful. She was glad she’d had him, no matter how tough it was, that was what she used to say. As he grew older, the more he felt under pressure to make up for her lack of a steady partner, and the more pressure he felt, the more he fucked up.

Mark ran a bath, put some of the contents of Julie’s bottles into it and sank down under the foam. It was still only Monday afternoon. Four days post-Lena that had lasted for ever. He needed to go over it all now, to force himself to work out a position. He’d been lucky so far, even if he might have got Julie’s new man killed and freaked her out for good, it was still luck that he was alive, and four of them were down. He couldn’t stop his mind making it into a scorecard. Four-two to him, maybe four-three if Carl didn’t make it.

Maybe his instinct had been right all along with Lena. He wondered about that night she came onto him. He’d had good-looking women before but no one like her. Now he couldn’t be sure if he’d ever really meant anything to her. Maybe she’d picked someone who was hiding from the past because that made her own life easier. No questions. No explanations. Mark had opened up more and more to her, daring to feel things he’d thought had been crushed out of him long ago. Mark didn’t want to think she’d been faking. If only he could have got Tony to talk to him in Coventry, he might have had the sense to step back, even let it go. No, even if those bastards had forced his hand, he was fooling himself. The hurt and loss was too great. There had been nothing to fight back against when Shane was taken, this time there was plenty. All that had been in his head when he opened Agani’s door was the need and desire to kill, he knew it now, and had to deal with it. Everything had been lightning fast. A weekend of killing, and maybe an end to it within days, not the drawn-out hell of waiting for news, like Shane. Mark just prayed that he was right about Angelo and his brother being the only ones who knew about Carl.

Shane was in his usual place. Somewhere deep underground, maybe an old mine shaft. Calling to him, his voice faint, tear-stained, and echoing off dripping walls, asking why he’d been left, asking endlessly until his cries dwindled to nothing. Then Lena was there, but her world was light, full of movement, she was on the catwalk, taking his picture in front of the Eiffel Tower, pulling him onto her on that king-sized bed. Shane and Lena were together now, Shane was holding her hand and taking her down.

As he awoke Mark shivered and his eyes burned with the bath salts. The water was barely warm, he turned on the hot tap but he’d used it all. He got out of the bath quickly. Black dog was a good name for depression and it was snapping at him now. He was cold to the bone and the nerve started up again. So much had gone on this day it had been pushed away, but it was there again now. The headache wouldn’t be far behind.

Mark found a towelling robe that must have been Carl’s, for it fitted, and made himself coffee. He poured what was left of his cheap whisky into it. He should eat, but couldn’t face it, so he sat in a chair by the window with the drink, and Angelo’s notebook. There was a trace of Julie’s perfume on the robe, better quality than the stuff she used to use. It summed up her recent life, a stab at something better, which might have worked.

There was still some light in the sky, and the Bristol Channel was just visible from Julie’s window, a sluggish grey-silver in the autumn light, an enlarged version of the smudge he’d seen from his hilltops.

Mark thumbed through the book. Agani’s name was here, and Tony’s, Lena’s and many others that meant nothing to Mark. Their London address was next to Lena’s name, and their phone numbers, including his mobile. There were lots of notes in Albanian and figures that were probably sums of money. He was surprised that this was Angelo’s writing. It was very neat and small, almost girlish. There seemed to be a whole section on Amsterdam, names he couldn’t pronounce, but he found what he was looking for. Stellachi. Angelo had even underlined the name for him. A few others were grouped with it, and the name of a club. SexLand. At least this was in English. International language, international activity. Underneath this were a list of addresses.

Mark had been abroad twice. Paris with Lena, Amsterdam on a job. He’d been asked to find a Brit hiding there. An accountant who’d gotten greedy and legged it with a fair bit of his company’s cash. The agency was onto a good payout if Mark brought him back. He did, without too much trouble. That man had almost faded from his memory but Mark remembered where he’d been holed up. A squalid hotel overlooking the girls in windows, people pushing crack on corners, and as good an assortment of multi-racial lowlife as you could ever invent, milling around alongside dark canals, waterways that looked like they didn’t want to be there. It hadn’t seemed so bad in the night, when he’d first hit town, darkness was always good for covering up crap, but when he’d followed that man in daylight, it was different. Neon club lights looked pathetic in the grey November light, women his mother’s age looking expectantly through the glass at would-be punters, like animals bored stiff in a zoo; middle-aged tourists checking out peep shows on pavements, Japs and fat Yanks gathered in excited groups, pointing fingers, and giggling like girls. Stuff Mark would have laughed at once, but at twenty-nine it made him feel pissed-off. Even as a kid, porn had bored him. He’d preferred to live it himself. The man he was after was middle aged and nervous, had a complexion like uncooked sausage, and most of his new life lay under his bed in fifty-quid notes. Proctor, Mark suddenly remembered the man’s name. When Mark turned up, Proctor was docile and obedient, becoming once again the man he’d always been, before that one rush of blood, frightened at what he’d done, and the raw life on the street outside. Mark thought he might have even been glad he’d been found. It was the only attempt to break out the poor bastard had ever made in his life, but at least he had tried something. Mark almost let him go.

Julie had a chair that you could kick back and rest your feet on another section that sprang up. Mark took advantage of it as he made his plans to be on the ferry by tomorrow evening.

*

‘Must have been a hell of a flight of stairs.’

‘How do you mean?’

The doctor was tall, as tall as Mark, but much better groomed, and safe. That was the thing about hospitals, Julie realised. Even if they dealt with death and sometimes were a lie, they still felt safe. The world outside was somewhere else and always would be.

‘Well, Mr Phillips has a serious head injury, a few broken ribs and a dislocated shoulder. He’s gone up for a scan to his head now. We’ll have a better idea of the damage then. You just found him in the house, you say?’

‘I’ve already told the nurse. At the bottom of the stairs. Got him here as soon as I could.’

‘Why didn’t you dial 999?’

‘I wanted to get him in straight away.’

‘I see. How did you manage him? He’s a big man.’

‘Carl managed to walk a bit. He didn’t seem so bad, at first.’

‘You’re not Mrs Phillips though?’

‘No. Carl’s divorced, almost. Things are almost settled with that. I’m his girl … his partner.’

It had a more solid ring to it than girlfriend. Please don’t even think how I got him here, Julie thought. I can’t even fucking drive.

‘Is he going to be all right, doctor?’

‘As I said, he’s had a very nasty blow to the head. He must have come down those stairs pretty fast.’

‘Most people do, when they fall.’

‘He’ll probably need an operation, to remove pressure from his brain. We’ll need to contact his next of kin. Would you have an address, phone number?’

‘Can’t help you there. There was no contact. Look, can I see him?’

‘He’s not conscious, but, yes, for a moment.’

Carl was all wired up. Things bleeped and whirred. Lots of activity going on around him. Just like on the telly, Julie thought bitterly. She’d never felt more alone when that doctor had talked about next of kin. What was she? Someone Carl had picked up in a bar, on grab-a-granny night. His ex had more rights than her. Julie had never been to hospital, apart from having Mark and Shane. Staying healthy had been the Richards’ one success story. Healthy in body, at least.

Carl seemed to be breathing all right, but his face was grey. Julie touched his arm lightly, as if she was waking him up to go to work.

‘Sorry, Carl,’ she whispered.

If and when he came round, Julie wondered if he’d want to bother with her any more. Mark was still out there, capable of God knows what. This hadn’t ended yet, not by a long chalk.

A nurse beckoned her to leave. As she did another woman was coming down the corridor, taller than her, and a bit younger. She knew instinctively that this was Carl’s ex-wife. They exchanged glances but Julie stepped past quickly. She had to get out of this place, before she was asked any more awkward questions. Mark’s money was heavy in her pocket. He’d given her a few hundred pounds, enough to stay somewhere near the hospital for a while. Julie thought of getting a taxi back to Carl’s place to get her suitcase, the one she should have been taking to Ireland, but couldn’t face it. Maybe Mark was right about them not knowing, but she didn’t feel up to taking a chance. Perhaps she could pick up some essentials in the morning. She left her mobile number at reception and gave Carl’s address. She told the pretty, bored receptionist that word partner again, more confidently this time. She liked the sound of it.

Julie couldn’t do anything for Carl now, so her thoughts turned back to Mark. She didn’t want them to but she couldn’t help it; it was all true about blood and water. If Mark had told it straight, it wasn’t his fault about the girl, yet the mess was still the same. As it had been with Shane. Never Mark’s fault, but life still smashed to pieces. Perhaps her son was cursed. Julie trembled in the cold air and waved at a taxi that was dropping someone off.

‘Where to, luv?’

‘Do you know a decent B & B close by, nothing too expensive?’

‘There’s a few down the road, like.’

‘OK. Take me to one of them, then.’

‘Travelling light are we?’

Nosy git, Julie thought. People always wanted to know, and anything out of place got a question.

‘Came down to the hospital, with my mother,’ Julie murmured. ‘It’s an emergency, I didn’t have time to pack a bag.’

‘Oh, I see.’

The room at the B & B was all right, and the woman not too interested, not when Julie told her the same tale. Julie dialled Mark’s number, but cancelled the call before it could ring. She didn’t know what else to say. He was running again. Always to and from danger, it seemed he’d been the same since he’d fought his way out of her. That hadn’t been easy either – she’d yelled herself hoarse for a long time before Mark appeared. The father wasn’t around. He’d scarpered as soon as she was showing. No maintenance money from men in those days, not that any of her old boyfriends would have had anything to give anyway. At least that sod had kept away.

As Julie gazed out on a landscape of old industry scarring up the coastline, tall chimneys funnelling smoke into the air, she thought of phoning the police. It was the one way to save Mark’s life, but a lifetime’s training wouldn’t let her. She couldn’t go through it all again, the endless questions, all the stuff in the papers, television, swimming around like a helpless bloody fish in a bowl. Shane brought back in all his mysterious glory. Anyway, from what she’d seen of those men who tried to kill them, she doubted that Mark would be safe in prison. Better he took his chances. Maybe that made her a bad mother, but at this moment she was past caring.

Julie waited a few hours before she phoned the hospital. An older woman was on the desk. Partner got her put through to the right ward, then an agonising minute’s wait while someone was fetched. ‘Please, God, please,’ she muttered to herself. Hardly aware she was saying it, such words hadn’t passed her lips for more than ten years. A young man’s voice answered in a foreign accent. Yes, Mr Phillips has had an operation to remove pressure from the brain. He’s stable, but very ill. No, he has not regained consciousness. His wife is with him.

Julie turned the phone off. The doctor’s last sentence was a gutter, but not enough to kill the relief that she felt. Stable-serious. She preferred to go with stable. Julie turned the room’s comfy chair towards the window. It was threadbare and well past comfy, but still welcome. She lit up a cigarette and watched the sky darken. The steelworks a mile away was bringing out all its colours. Hot reds and oranges gaining strength in the night, necklace-like patterns of lights, and stacks releasing smoke of various densities. It looked like hell, perfect for the way she was feeling, but there was also a kind of beauty in it. It reminded her of those sci-fi and horror videos Mark used to knock off, for a brief time he’d been obsessed by nonsense like alien worlds, and space ships, and the steelworks looked like a giant one landing in the night. A few of the men from the estate had travelled here to work. They were like millionaires compared to the rest, and they got away as soon as they could.

If she could face it, she’d get over to Carl’s place tomorrow, and ask the taxi driver to wait while she got her case. That would be long enough. Julie got up and took the thin duvet from the bed and wrapped it around her. It was a double bed, and she did not want to sleep in it.

*

Mark woke at first light. He’d transferred to Julie’s bed in the middle of the night. For a moment he thought he was back in the flat in London, encouraged by the residue of Julie’s perfume in the room.

The blues ring tone on his phone sounded, breaking the silence in the flat in a very eerie way. He could almost hear Elvis’s voice echoing around the room. It was Julie and Mark steeled himself for bad news. It must be, at this time in the morning.

‘Mark, you awake?’

‘I am now.’

‘What’s the time?’

‘Before seven.’

‘I didn’t notice. Didn’t sleep much.’

‘Is Carl …?’

‘He’s alive. They had to operate on him. I just phoned now. He’s stable, whatever that means. They wouldn’t tell me too much. I’m not next of kin, see.’

‘Operate on what?’

‘His head, stupid. Something about relieving the pressure.’

‘Where are you now, Mam?’

‘In a B & B. Couldn’t face going back to his place, but I will later. Just to get my stuff. I’m not staying. When the money runs out I’ll go back to Penarth.’

‘You can’t do that. They know about the flat.’

‘You got any better ideas?’

‘Look, if you stop in Carl’s house the money will last a lot longer. They don’t know about his place, or him, for that matter. That knowledge died with those blokes up at the church. I’ll try to send some more money when I can.’

‘I dunno. It would be freaky going back there. We’re not all made like you, Mark. Christ, I never thought I’d miss the estate, but at least you knew where you were up there. Maybe people like us don’ deserve nothing better.’

‘Don’t talk like that, Mam. You were doing fine. New life, new place, new man. It’s not all gone, Carl will get through this, and he’ll stand by you. I know he will, he’s sound.’

‘What, stand by a woman who’s going round the twist ’cos she’s lost both her sons.’

‘You haven’t lost me.’

‘Just a matter of time, innit?’

They had been here so many times before. Hopeless attempts at reassurance that led nowhere. All Mark could hope for was to keep any further chaos away from her.

As Mark stood looking out at the sea he thought of Angelo’s last words, you take an eye, we’ll take many. He was starting to focus on Stellachi now, that hard blond face. He wanted that bastard to suffer, and had nowhere else to go now. Mark felt he knew the man already, but Stellachi’s early life probably made Mark’s upbringing on the estate seem idyllic.

‘Mark, you still there?’

‘Aye. My battery’s running low. I’ll have to look for the charger.’

‘Don’ know what to say to me, do you?’

‘Well, I’m not going to say something stupid like don’t worry, but you will be all right, Mam. Stay close to Carl now.’

‘Why don’ you turn yourself in to the police, love?’

‘You don’t really want that, or you would have phoned them yourself. You must have thought about it. No, no more publicity for the Richards, Mam. I’ll keep this as private as possible.’

As he said this, Mark saw Lena sinking down through black water. If he lost out over there, he’d go in a similar way. He’d never be found, he was sure of that. Each of Julie’s sons will have vanished and she’d never know the truth about either. The rest of her life would be one of dark guesses.

‘Time I made a move, Mam.’

‘You’re going after that man, aren’t you?’

‘Better you know nothing from here on in.’

‘I wish you’d kept it that way from the start.’

‘If I could change it, I would, but it’s done now. At least we’re all still here.’

‘Go on then, go off and get your bloody self killed. What do I care any more?’

But care was shot through her racked voice, Mark heard the tears and felt like he was being kicked in the stomach. He’d always hated his mother crying, though it had saturated his early life. Mark tried to think of something positive to say before he hung up, but it was hopeless, Julie would have been waiting for ever. She ended the call.

The room was very quiet. She hadn’t even said goodbye and Mark couldn’t blame her. For a moment going to the police was attractive. He felt drained, like he had when the thieving had got too much in the old days. When he became increasingly careless in his house-breaking, careless enough to let himself be caught. It was all he could think to do to end it, after Shane went. To give his mother a break and put himself in the hands of others. The scraps of care and punishment offered by the state, though hated, became a way out and he’d taken it.

Mark turned his own phone off, went to the bathroom and showered. He stood under it for a long time, letting the water penetrate. He’d been grubby as a kid, but even one day on the hills had been enough to tell him how much he’d changed-outwardly. Skanky hair and three-day-old underwear were a thing of the past, and he never wanted to return to it.

Mark got dressed, using some of the clothes that had been on walkabout with him. He looked crumpled but clean. He took a look at himself in the mirror, and the stare back was even wilder than usual, but he hardly noticed this; his mind’s eye was focused on Stellachi. That man must stay in central position now, his one image of him, framed by old Rome, waiting for him like the gladiators of old. People forced to kill for money, need, and even pleasure a long time ago, but nothing had changed much in the world. It was a pity he couldn’t go back to those times. Meet Stellachi in a bloody ring, winner takes all. Mark made sure the notebook was safe. There were numbers for Stellachi in it. He logged them in his mobile and put the notebook in the inside pocket of his coat. Its contents were mainly unfathomable to him, but his enemies didn’t know that. The notebook had to stay next to him at all times, it might be a lifesaver.

Mark emptied the rucksack and borrowed one of Julie’s small weekend cases. It wouldn’t look so conspicuous. He left what he could, putting Lena’s Amsterdam doll on the mantelpiece. It looked at home there, and Julie might not even notice it. A decision had to be made about the guns. Terrorism had made things tough for honest crooks and security at the ports would be too tight to get through. The guns would have to go.

There was milk, juice and cereal in Julie’s kitchen. He made himself a large bowl of muesli which tasted of liquid cardboard and drank a glass of grapefruit juice, so sharp it almost cut his throat. When Julie phoned he’d been sleeping soundly. He felt guilty about that, in the wake of so much killing, but survival instinct was taking over. His brain, body, senses were adjusting to what had gone down over the weekend. It no longer seemed dreamlike. Everything had happened and he couldn’t change any of it. It was Tuesday morning, day five, PL.

Mark stepped out into a fine, mild day. The weather was all over the place, but he remembered Julie saying how much better the climate was here, just twenty miles away from the valleys. It was still early, not many people about as he walked down to the seafront. There was an old pier here that had been tarted up, its boardwalk sanded and painted. He walked out on it, nodding to an old man getting his fishing stuff ready.

Mark had an automatic in each pocket and the S and W stuck in his belt. He stood at the end of the pier, looked around a few times and dropped them quietly into the sea, three splashes, three histories disappearing. The sea wasn’t very deep here, but it was murky enough. The guns would be rusting sculpture in just days, encrusted with sea-life in weeks.

Mark walked up and down the seafront. He ought to be off, on the first train he could get to London, but something held him back. If Carl hadn’t been so badly hurt he would have driven them to the ferry port for Ireland himself. One loose end could have been tidied up. He wished he could actually believe his confident words to Julie. They shouldn’t know anything about Carl or where he lived but shouldn’t wasn’t couldn’t.

Perhaps it was fear, and his guts were not as rock hard as people had always said. Perhaps, now that he was back in Wales, he felt something for the place. The language, history, and assorted bullshit had always passed the Richards by. He’d never seen the point of any of it, other than to divide people. But it was where he’d spent his first twenty years, and maybe Shane was still here somewhere, dead or alive. When he’d read the Welsh inscriptions on the headstones in that valley church, as he’d done so many times before in his youth, all his tortuous upbringing came back to him. Maybe it did mean something, even if belonging for the Richards family just meant clinging on. Valley people were different, he’d found that out when he’d been banged up in Portland, surrounded by English rogues, and in his early years in London.

Mark grinned, or rather grimaced to himself. His thoughts were getting soft. Time to put them away and get on with business. Business, that was what Agani and Angelo had called it. A neat eight-letter word which covered everything, cleansed it, made evil acts seem normal.

Mark stopped in a store and bought two papers, national and local. In the local, the brothers had made front page. They would have liked that. Havoc on the Hillside, the headline read. There was a picture of the two cars locked together and burnt out. Like one of those overpriced sculptures Lena had liked to look at. Mystery surrounds the identity … good. The more mystery the better. There was no mention of anyone else being at the scene. Even better. They had got away with it. For now. There was a much smaller piece on the inside pages of the national paper. This was something that happened in that place west of England, just another accident. No mention anywhere of Kelly. He’d had his few inches of fame. Kelly was yesterday now, his sad life rubbed out in seconds. Mark saw his snivelling face, imagined its terror, what he must have gone through before they realised he really didn’t know anything, and didn’t care. The local council would have to pay to put him in the ground, and Mark doubted that there would be many mourners. Mark went back into the newsagents and bought a pen and pad much the same as Angelo’s, stuffed the papers in a litter bin and made his way to the local station. In Cardiff he caught the first train to Paddington that came in, and for the next few hours copied out everything that was in Angelo’s book.

Paddington again. Same new makeover, same sushi bar, but mid-morning Tuesday it was busier, more people chasing their lives through London, as he had, just a few days ago. Mark sat down at the sushi bar, an instant decision, and ordered something he could at least recognise. He thought it might be prawns and rice. A businessman in a pin-striped suit sat opposite him, waiting for his meal to come around. When it did, he tucked into something that looked like someone’s nightmare. They exchanged glances, eyes from completely different worlds collided. Mark had sometimes wondered what it would be like to have a straight job, but not often. He seemed to be following Lena’s diet, healthy breakfast, healthy snack. He tried to push rice into his mouth with chopsticks and wondered if anything could be more ironic, eating healthy at a time when people were trying to snuff him out. A large man who stank of garlic sat down next to him. He looked a bit like Angelo and Mark instinctively reached for the Smith and Wesson. He’d got used to the weight of it against his heart, and, for a moment, felt quite naked. How quickly those lethal tools became a habit. Angelo was right. They did take over, the user and the situation. Guns hadn’t really helped him in the churchyard, it took a middle-aged ex-squaddie to do that.

Mark sat at the bar longer than he intended. It was as hard as ever to form a realistic plan. Instant action and reaction was what he was good at, or at least used to be good at. The Angelo look-alike left the bar and left his paper. Mark picked it up. It was opened on the travel page. Cheap flights to everywhere. Amsterdam. The name jumped up at him. Lots of companies offering to fly you there from London for peanuts.

He was shaking a little. First healthy food, now flying. He wasn’t sure he could do it. Mark wasn’t sure at all. But it would make sense. They would know about his flying phobia. Getting there that way might give him a slight edge. It might also turn him into a gibbering wreck, someone Stellachi could pick off with ease.

‘Anything else, sir?’ a friendly Eastern face inquired.

‘I’ll have a bottle of lager.’

It was early but Mark needed it. The bottle was well-chilled and he realised how hot his face was when he put it to his lips. He looked at the advert for a long while then phoned the number. Within minutes he’d bought a ticket on his card. Another first for him. He’d be in Amsterdam by evening, if he got over to Heathrow quickly and if he could keep his funk under control. Mark drank the lager from the bottle in two draughts, and went out of the station to the taxi rank. It would cost, but so what? His money only had to last a few days.

He sat in the back of the car as the driver mumbled on about traffic chaos. After what had happened in the last five days getting through one short flight should be OK. That’s what he told himself, that’s what he kept on telling himself. As they neared the airport his body tightened, the sweating got worse, and one hand dug into the other.

‘What terminal, pal?’

‘Uh, I’m not sure. I’ve got an afternoon flight for Amsterdam.’

Mark named the airline.

‘Got it. Know them all now, I do, all the flights, all the terminals. Like an extra bit of knowledge, that is. Business or pleasure?’

The driver didn’t wait for an answer. They never did. ‘You’ll have a good time over there, me old son. Fit bloke like you. That’ll be sixty quid.’

Mark pushed notes into the man’s hand and was gone, walking into the building, like it was a place of execution. He was just in time for the check-in. The case was small enough to keep as hand luggage and he went through the alien routines as if he’d drunk many bottles of lager, not one. No one bothered him, and his passport was handed back to him with a smile.

In the departure lounge Mark checked the mobile. Nothing from Julie but maybe no news was good news. He tried to relax. The sushi food fought with the lager and repeated on him. Mark was barely aware of what was going on around him, and the nerve kicked in. This was too good an opportunity for it to miss, and the headache soon joined it. More a migraine. He knew the signs. The way pain crept over the left hand section of his head, then got the lot in its grip. Until the dizziness came and he wanted to be sick, but never was. The nerve kept perfect time. Tap tap. Tap tap. The bright lights of the building united into a punishing sun, and the noise around him blurred into a drone, like wasps inside a bottle, but inside his head.

Mark’s flight was called. There was a flurry of activity around him, and he let everyone go on ahead of him. He could hardly see his boarding card, as a woman took it from him. He was at the back of the plane, in a seat ridiculously small, an already amorous couple of kids alongside him. The boy looked at him with resignation.. Mark thanked Christ this would only take an hour. An hour. Divided up into sixty minutes. Minutes divided up into sixty seconds. Mark started to count them.

Taking off was bad. His guts seemed to be coming up to his mouth. He almost grabbed the kid next to him as his hands dug into the sides of his seat. Going up against Stellachi would be nothing compared to this. Something was said to him, but he didn’t hear it. Everything was drowned out by the rushing in his ears. They popped and now he was in some underwater land. The nerve was loving it. It had reinforcements. His neighbour was saying something else to him.

‘I said are you all right, mate? You’re as white as a sheet.’

‘Yeah, all right. Just a headache.’

At least Mark thought he said this. His voice echoed in his head.

‘He’s pissed,’ the boy said to his girlfriend. ‘He’d better not fucking throw up.’

His girlfriend straightened her clothes and told him to shut up.

Mark was vaguely aware of a voice announcing something. A sugary you-are-safe-in-my-hands kind of voice. The voice that might sell you an overpriced car, or tell you you have cancer. Yet it worked. He was so headshot that this moment of calm helped. Someone came round with tea, coffee and booze. He tried the tea, and made it as sweet as he could. The migraine became devious. It had a knife in its possession, and started to cut into his skull. Working its way towards his eyes, prodding them, stabbing at them. Mark tried to rub the pain away but it was useless.

He was up to fifty minutes. Counting out each section. His vision cleared a few times, when the tight, thin capsule of the plane stood out sharply, its captive cargo in rows, all helpless and behaving normally. The boy was staring at him again, but he was more nervous than cocky now. He probably thinks I’m praying, Mark thought – I am.

Then they were landing. The sugary voice came on again. Pleased that they were five minutes early, saying that the weather was wet, and foggy. Mark’s guts rushed back down, passing where they ought to be, on their way to his boots. He almost did what the boy was afraid of and wasn’t sure how he got off the plane, as his own automatic pilot took over, working his legs, and propelling them along the walkway. The fresh air was a relief, it was a blessing, and he sucked it in greedily. Mark got through controls without being stopped or questioned, which surprised him. If ever anyone looked like a dead man walking it must be him this night.

Schiphol was busy. Mark managed to change some money, though the notes danced around in his hand. He sat at a table in the nearest café, and, gradually, he pulled himself together. The ground was starting to steady, not moving in front of him, and he was cold. He’d given himself a sweat bath for the last few hours, and now he was drying out in the fresh night. The coffee was strong and he put three sachets of sugar into it. He needed to come on stream as quickly as possible.

His vision was getting better, and the headache receded to a dull throb. There was no stopping the nerve though, it had been boosted with new sensations and it kept up its own relentless rhythm, flexing the vein.

So, this was the place Lena had passed through many times. Bringing him back little gifts, always excited about her Dutch trips. Over the years she must have smuggled stuff worth millions. He appreciated her nerve. She could have been stopped at any time and if she had been, she’d be alive now. Mark doubted they’d want to kill her for getting caught, though with creatures like Stellachi nothing could be certain.

Mark stayed at the café for half an hour, then took the train to the central station. The nightmare of flying had been crowded out. He was becoming alert again, and the station was at least somewhere he’d been before. It was dark now, and the usual nightlife was about, the type that populated train and bus stations everywhere Mark had been. The type that came alive at night, attaching itself to transient movement, like sharks to shoals of fish. Street people looking for angles, quick deals, easy scores. Looking for stragglers, and the unwary. Here it was many nationalities and colours, all fetched up under the Dutch flag, but the same action was going down. A few black guys looked at Mark expectantly as they passed. Their eyes said you want something, mister, we got it, but Mark was not the type to approach with any confidence. There were also plenty of police about. Every so often they herded the most persistent hustlers towards the exit door, but they hung around outside for a few minutes, then came back in. No one was taking it very seriously.

Mark had stayed at a small two-star guesthouse before, the Hotel Lola. It was a fifteen-minute walk away on Niewe Keizergracht. His type of place, run by a bald-headed fat git called Anton, who always looked like he needed a wash, but who also had three useful qualities – he was deaf, dumb and blind. Mark stepped out, letting the air freshen him up. His clothes no longer stuck to him, he felt like an animal released, almost invigorated, an invigorated stupid bastard, moving blindly on towards his fate.