Chapter Fourteen

Julie agonised over Mark’s text. She wanted to say more, the need to know he was all right made her feel cold and her stomach tighten up, she was on the verge of throwing up all the time. When she’d seen him standing on the doorstep of her flat all the old emotions had come back. Joy at the sight of him, immediately laced with suspicion. Last night she’d slept fitfully, in short snatches, jerked back to life with flashbacks of the churchyard business. That ape grabbing at her, the cars exploding, Carl lying amongst the trees, looking very dead. She’d been sure they’d killed him. At least that hadn’t happened, but she was feeding off crumbs. Small windows of light in the dark passageway that was Mark’s world.

Julie stood by the window in her nightie, watching dawn appear. How often had she seen Mark do this, scratching his arse and staring blankly out at the hillside, as if it might have answers. In his own private, locked-door world, and oblivious to her presence. Sometimes, when he was late back from a job, she’d come downstairs and find him like this. They were the only times she’d see him up that early, mostly he’d surface mid-afternoon, full of sleep and foul mood. Again Julie wondered if she should have gone to the police, but it was too late now. Mark was gone. Chasing a finish. He’d been doing that since he was fifteen. It must be her fault. After Shane vanished she’d had a lot of support from the social worker, but she couldn’t call it help because there was no real help, not for something like that. Shane is not your fault, the woman said, and you can’t keep taking responsibility for Mark. The woman kept saying that none of it was her fault, but Julie had never really believed it. Every time she’d gone down to Cardiff, seen the shops, and what was in them, what other people could afford to buy, she felt it was her fault. Every time she blew it with a new man, usually some tosser who couldn’t provide the time of day, let alone anything else, it was her fault. Mark hadn’t had a chance, so she thought that Shane was her punishment. Now all this had happened. Maybe the punishment wasn’t over.

The B & B had a nice garden. Julie watched early morning birds flit around, a robin shouting the odds at bigger birds. It was one of the few she could name. It hopped around on the wall outside her window, puffing out its red chest like something from a Christmas card. She imagined herself owning a place like this. A garden, near the sea, a man coming home at the same time every night. A routine. Happiness for her would be something unchanging, even uneventful, but safe, and always there. She’d love every boring minute of it. It was starting to be a little like this before Mark knocked on the door. Having somewhere to go five days a week, even if it was work in a factory, then meeting Carl. He’d made the weekends less of a trial. Carl was a good bloke. No angel, but not useless either, an ordinary kind of man, normal, that word the Richards had never done. Not that Carl’s actions this weekend had been anything like normal, but that’s what happened when people met Mark   even after one bloody day.

Julie showered and dressed. The taxi was picking her up at nine. She’d become one of the guy’s regulars now, his next customer after the school run. She wanted to spend as much time with Carl as she could. It was what normal people did.

*

‘Get him up.’

Stellachi’s voice was quite high. He sounded more like the owner of a boutique than a killer. Mark thought Angelo had come back from the dead, for the man who dragged him up looked remarkably like him. Three men were in the room. One stood against the wall behind the door with an automatic in his hand. Not much of the wall was left because this man was almost as wide as it.

‘Put him in the chair.’

Blood was pouring onto Mark’s shirt and he tried to blink clear his vision. He hated shots to the nose, it was impossible to control the eyes. You stupid, stupid bastard, he mouthed to himself. He should have been more careful about this place, and about Anton. Stellachi was ahead of him, and deserved to be.

‘I’ve just had a call from Hakim,’ Stellachi said. ‘I hope you left the apartment in good order. So you flew in. That was hard for you, wasn’t it? I’m quite impressed, Mr Richards, phobias are hard to dismiss. You must want me very badly.’

This guy’s English was better than Mark’s own. Just the faint trace of an accent. ‘I think I will call you Mark,’ Stellachi said. ‘It’s a nice name, very Biblical. Mark, did you really think you could come so far, and not be taken? True, we did not expect you to fly, and if you could have flown into my apartment maybe you might have had a chance. But you had to take a train, and you were seen.’

Stellachi threw a photograph towards him. Mark recognised it. One from the early days with Lena. He remembered Kelly taking it outside the Queen’s Head, his boozers hands fiddling with the camera, telling them to say cheese in his best Irish accent for Lena.

‘We had many of these printed, just like the police do. For us, you are famous, my friend. You didn’t really have a chance, did you, Mr Mark Richards?’

Stellachi was on his feet now, walking around like a model. Charcoal Armani suit, white polo neck, matching gloves. Mark almost expected him to be carrying a cane. Stellachi nodded towards the man by the door.

‘That’s Adam, my first man. He laughs at my gloves, thinks they are a woman’s things, but not to my face, of course.’

Stellachi folded the gloves and placed them on the bedroom table, checking it carefully first, and flicking something from its surface.

‘Pigsty,’ he muttered to himself.

Mark didn’t see it coming. The Romanian had great eye-to-hand co-ordination, and special timing. The punch flicked into his head like a wasp sting, it didn’t seem to have much force but it rocked Mark back in the chair and closed his right eye. He felt Stellachi’s ring imprint itself on his cheekbone. Mark thought of getting up but wall-man Adam had got close to him now, and had the gun sticking in his back.

Maybe I have only seconds to live, Mark thought. Then it will be all over. Thirty strange years end here, in some poxy Dutch hovel, surrounded by evil arseholes. My glorious exit from a glorious world. But doesn’t part of me want it? To be out of it all. No more struggle. The big sleep. Who knows, the way some call it, I might be meeting up with Lena again, even Shane. Living in happy land. No mysteries. No pain.

Stellachi was watching him closely. He beckoned to the other man who stepped forward and handed Mark a towel.

‘Clean yourself up,’ Stellachi said.

Stellachi walked around the room. Mark expected another blow at any moment, or a bullet in the back of the head.

‘So, this is interesting,’ Stellachi said. ‘I’ve killed men face to face, and they all showed fear. Sometimes it was masked by anger, by their attempts to kill me, but it was always there. You are different, Mark, aren’t you. I can see it in your eyes. You are ready.’

Stellachi came closer and Mark felt the gun push deeper into his shoulders. A flicker of Stellachi’s eyes and he’d be dead. Stellachi’s voice dropped to a whisper, and Mark could smell his sweet breath. Some drink he couldn’t place.

‘Don’t give up so easily, Mark. Give me a little pleasure. How do you say in English – we are fellow travellers. A pity about the girl, and what she has caused. It might have been good to get to know you.’

Mark lunged at Stellachi’s throat. He thought he was quick, but Stellachi was quicker. Mark grabbed at air, then plunged down into darkness.

‘Don’t kill him,’ Stellachi shouted.

Adam stood over Mark, the gun bloody in his head.

‘Don’t kill him,’ Stellachi repeated, more softly. ‘Oh no, Mr Mark Richards, nothing so easy for you. Bring him.’

Stellachi put on his gloves, straightened his suit and left them to it. Downstairs he beckoned to Anton, who was doing his best to make himself invisible in a doorway. Stellachi pushed a few hundred euros into his hand, taking care not to touch the man. He pointed to his tongue.

‘Wag that and I’ll come back, cut it out and make you eat it. You know I will, don’t you?’

Anton nodded, so hard, drops of sweat flew from his forehead. Stellachi stepped out of the way quickly, then was gone. Mark followed, supported down the stairs by Adam, the other man carrying Mark’s case.

*

‘How you feeling, luv?’

‘Not too bad. Got the mother and father of all headaches though.’

Julie touched Carl’s forehead gently.

‘Hardly surprising. Just imagine you’ve been on a bender.’

‘Well I have, in a way. We all have.’

‘Aye.’

‘Any news?’

‘I don’t expect any. Not from Mark. He’ll be following Shane now, vanishing into thin air.’

Julie pushed at her eyes with the backs of her fingers and was quiet for a minute or so.

‘I’m surprised you still want me around.’

‘Don’t be daft. After what we been through? What else we got, who else have we got?’

‘You got two kids.’

‘Aye, thousands of miles away, and they always followed their mother anyway. I didn’t even have a birthday card off either of them. Look, Jool, I’ll need you to look after me, wait on me hand and foot, do my every bidding. The doc says you might have to do it for the rest of my life. It’ll be a bloody first from any woman I’ve known.’

‘Oh aye? I’ve just spoken to him. He say you’ll be up and on your feet in a few weeks. Maybe back working in a few months.’

‘Oh well, worth a try. Working, why doesn’t that thrill me?’

Julie smiled.

‘See, Jool, you can still do that.’

Carl did the same.

‘Christ, it’s good to have that tube out,’ he murmured. ‘The hole in my throat will heal up on its own, apparently. I’m not used to talking in a whisper. We were meant to survive, Jool. We’ll get through this.’

‘I don’t know if I can go on, Carl. How much more am I expected to take?’

‘Look, I can’t change anything that’s happened, but I can be here for you, right now. I know a knackered old soldier is not much of a substitute for losing a son, and maybe another, but …’

‘You should have come along twenty years ago.’

‘Well I’m here now. Look, I do need you, Jool, I realised that when the ex came to see me. There was nothing there any more, for either of us. I think she thought I was going to croak and that there might be a bit of money around.’

‘I saw her in the corridor.’

‘Oh. You spoke, like?’

‘Just a few words. No problems.’

‘You must have surprised her, good-looking woman like you. I don’t think she thought I’d ever hook up with anyone again.’

‘Good-looking woman! Those bastards after Mark put twenty years on me.’

‘I don’t see no sign of it.’

‘Even on your bloody back you’re a charmer.’

‘Aye, for you. So, are we going to stick it out?’

Julie placed a hand over Carl’s. As she traced the veins and the drip going in, she could sense the strength still in the man. Strength that had saved her and Mark. Strength that had never been offered her before, and which she needed.

‘Jool?’

‘Yeah, I s’pose. Give it a try.’

*

Adam had not told Stellachi about Hakim’s phone call. He’d been too afraid, as Hakim had been too afraid to phone Stellachi direct. Stellachi felt the type of rage that had always made him sick. It started in the pit of his stomach, then rushed to his head, where it collided with many images. Old demons reared up at him, and there was only one way to still them. He flicked open his own phone, jet black against his gloves, and pressed the chrome numbers.

This Richards was interesting. A pity that he had been taken so easily. That was the trouble with hate, it clouded your judgement, especially if you were not used to it. If you were born with it, that was another matter. It became an ally that allowed any action. It became an excuse that set you free.

So, Mark Richards had got to the apartment. Hakim told him, his voice small and distant, afraid of every syllable it uttered.

‘And he has papers, from a small book.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Papers. Lots of names, the big people. Your name, phone numbers, figures, our address.’

‘Our address?’

‘Yes, here. I couldn’t stop him. He was powerful, like you.’

‘Hakim, Hakim, I don’t keep you to stop people and he’s not powerful now, is he? And the apartment?’

Hakim was quiet for twelve seconds. Stellachi counted each one.

‘Speak to me, Hakim.’

‘He hit me. I bled. I’m cleaning.’

Stellachi turned off his phone. He imagined his furnishings soiled, the place turned into an abattoir. He felt sick again, and need rose up in him.

‘Take him to the usual place,’ Stellachi said to Adam, ‘and be careful with this one.’

Stellachi kicked Mark, hard to the head.

‘That will help you sleep, my friend. Rest while you can.’

Hakim stood by the window, watching for Stellachi. The tourists were out in force now, as the light was fading. Like the creatures of prey they were, Hakim thought. This had been his world since the age of ten. It was hard to remember anything else, before Stellachi. He had images of being amongst many children and of the mother who gave him away, but they had faded, and were getting harder and harder to recall. Better not to now. He remembered the hunger though, first in the belly, then the mind, hunger for everything, but most of all kindness.

Even the summers were cold here. He hated the water all around, and could not understand why so many came to see the boring lines of inky liquid. Canals made the city hard to move around, and, in winter, they brought down the fog that was cloaking them now. Sometimes they froze over, to lie like bloated, grey veins across the city.

From the window Hakim saw Stellachi, his elegant clothes marking him out as he glided down the street. Hakim always thought of him as gliding, so lightly did he move. The Romanian was a beautiful man. When Stellachi came for him, his mother said he would provide the kindness. With his white, shining clothes, standing so healthy and tall, he looked like someone sent by Allah. At first Stellachi was kind, if kindness could ever be provided in a cold way. Until Hakim was twelve, when it began. He was still here, one did not get away from a man like Stellachi. Hakim was eighteen years old and trembling with fear as he heard a foot on the stairs.

Mark thought it better to play groggy, though his head had cleared enough to know his life hung on a thread. These guys were on a higher level than Agani’s crowd, he’d gone up a division. Adam and the other man dragged him to a car, he was pushed into the back, a gun on him at all times. He still had the towel, Adam pushed it against Mark’s face.

‘Don’t bleed on the seat,’ Adam said, ‘Mr Stellachi doesn’t like it.’

They were being open about names because they thought it didn’t matter, in their eyes Mark was already dead. They were taking him back to the red lights, he felt the car’s tyres crunch on the cobblestones. It would be jumping now that it was dark and all manner of creature out. They skirted a canal and Mark saw club lights reflected in the water, turning it into a dirty rainbow. The car stopped behind a canal-side house, in a narrow street that was poorly lit. He couldn’t see much but felt the dig into his kidneys from the butt of the gun. It was a blow meant to weaken and it did. He was pulled out of the car and pushed through a doorway, down slimy steps, and into a cellar. The silent man was a strong bastard, strong enough to lift him off his feet and throw him into a corner of the room. He cracked a shoulder against a wall and crashed down.

‘You can stay here with your thoughts until Mr Stellachi comes for you,’ Adam said, as he slammed shut the door.

All was black at first. Mark held out a hand and could not see it, then its outline appeared and slowly he made out the shape of the room. It was dank, close to water, but a faint line of light was coming from somewhere. He traced it with his eyes. There was a large wooden hatch in the wall above him, and the light was coming from a crack in this. Mark realised he was in an old warehouse, once fed by canal traffic. He smelt something too, Chinese food. Perhaps he was in Chinatown, it perched on the edge of Pornland. Sex usually led to other appetites.

Mark got up shakily. Feeling his side, and his head. The knife was gone, but they didn’t have the notebook. Stellachi would be finding out about that now and it would be a problem for him. The notebook might be Mark’s ace in the hole, a grubby, dog-marked ace, but all he had left to play. A boat went by outside, it felt just the other side of him and he could hear music and the laughter of people.

Mark felt his way around the room, looking for anything. Its walls were rough stone and the floor was uneven. He stumbled a few times. It must have been hundreds of years old, but it had not been used for a long time, at least not for the goods that used to be swung through the wooden doors above him. Other victims had been thrown in here before him, he was sure of that. This was a last resting place for the condemned. Mark did not want to imagine how Stellachi dealt with people, but he determined one thing. If his ace in the hole turned out to be a busted flush, somehow he’d get his hands on Stellachi and do some damage. He wanted to smash that face, it would be a good last thing to do. He looked again at the small crack in the cargo doors. A crack might mean a weakness.

Hakim held the torn out pages in front of him, and tried to hide behind them.

Stellachi took them, looking with disgust at the bloodstains. Hakim had changed his shirt and cleaned himself up. He’d vainly tried to wash off the blood from the sofa but had only succeeded in diluting the stains and making them bigger. As he’d rubbed and soaked, tears of dread dropped from his eyes. He’d learnt very quickly that everything must always be spotless in Stellachi’s world, nothing out of place. Colours of depth and richness, the ones he’d grown up with, had no place here. His master liked pale, and white, almost no colour at all.

Whatever Hakim had been expecting did not happen. The pages had saved him. Stellachi sat at his desk and pored over them. He stretched his hands and clicked each finger joint as his thoughts ran hot. He cursed those cretins in London. This had been copied from a notebook Angelo must have had, and he’d let Richards take it from him. Stellachi hoped Angelo burnt alive for a long time in that car, and that he was burning now. He stretched and tried to calm himself, looking with interest at the slight tremor in his hands. He called to Hakim, who was trying to melt into the other side of the room.

‘Come here.’

Stellachi clicked his fingers at the floor and Hakim sat down at his feet. The Romanian ran his fingers through Hakim’s short black hair and murmured a few things. At times like these, Hakim was not sure if he was talking to himself or not.

‘So, my little Arab boy, this Richards is troublesome. He’s quite good-looking, in a rough sort of way, don’t you think? What does he expect this book will gain him? His life?’

Stellachi took off his jacket and leaned back in his white polo neck. His complexion was so pale he almost merged with it. He pulled up a sleeve and ran a finger along a thin, blue scar, from wrist to elbow. Hakim knew he always did this when disturbed. It was the one imperfection on his body, the one time Stellachi had got careless, and had warded off a knife blow with his forearm.

‘So, what will we do with this man, eh? And all because of a woman. An Albanian at that.’

Stellachi’s hand tightened in Hakim’s hair, and tugged at it.

‘You don’t know what I’m talking about, do you?’

Stellachi thought the value of the notebook would depend on three things. Where it was, if anyone had been charged with its safekeeping, and whether that person had been told to take it to the police if Richards disappeared. This man was smart, smart enough to have made such a plan, if he’d had the time. Maybe the original book would be back in his homeland, this Wales.

Richards had come to Amsterdam to kill him, nothing else, and he thought the notebook was his ticket back, what he’d use to deal with the organisation. Having it come into his possession was his good fortune. Angelo had been too stupid to keep much in his head, so he wrote it all down, names, numbers, transactions, and kept it with him. Even the most dim-witted police force would be able to piece it all together, in time. Stellachi would have taken the book from Angelo in London if he’d known of its existence. But then again, Richards was unpredictable, like him. He might have done nothing with the book. Stellachi would have to gamble, as he had done all his life. For a brief moment he identified with Mark, and wondered if he felt the same pain. His never went away, sometimes it was masked, almost quiet, other times it raged. Stellachi could still smell Lena as he came up behind her. Guerlain, quite a good scent, for a whore.

Stellachi’s traced the line on his arm a few times, then started to twist Hakim’s hair. The boy stiffened and willed himself not to cry out. It stopped quickly and Stellachi patted his head. Hakim felt like the pet he was.

‘No, this Richards is nothing, and I have him,’ Stellachi muttered. ‘See to my bath. The right height, the right temperature.’

Hakim got up and walked away, but inside he was running.

Something scuttled over the other side of the wooden hatchway. A rat probably. Mark envied its freedom, its brief snatch of on-the-edge life. Stellachi would either take a chance that no one else had the book and kill him quickly, or try to have a few games with him, head and body, until Mark cracked, and spilt his one bean.

It was getting cold in the room, but night sounds were increasing outside as the district business got into full swing. Sometimes a snatch of laughter, sometimes an angry voice, a pleading voice, as money for bodies changed hands constantly. For all he knew Stellachi’s club might be very close; he could hear music, old stuff from the seventies being pumped out. It drifted across the water at various volumes. Maybe he had until morning, maybe not.

Mark started to check around the room, feeling each rough piece of stonework. I’m in another fucking film, he thought, the one where the hero looks for a way out, and always finds one. Maybe it was Hollywood after all, for his busted-nail hands found a loose stone. This part of the wall had been rebuilt, with a type of house brick he could recognise. Shoddy modern workmanship might be coming to his aid. Gripping its loose end, he was able to work the brick back and fore, but could not move it much further. Mark took off his belt and used the buckle to scour the blown mortar. The brick moved again. After half an hour it came away. In his now bloodied hands he had man’s most primitive weapon. His first thought was to try to brain whoever came through the door the next time it opened, but all that would get him was a quick bullet.

Night-cruise boats were going past frequently now, floating gin palaces, each one noisier than the last. He looked up at the wooden cargo doors above him and sized up the brick in his hand. The doors were large, the brick small, but there was that small crack.

In the time it took a boat to pass the warehouse Mark was able to get six or seven blows in on the wooden doors above him. At full stretch he targeted the gap where the light was, using the brick as a miniature battering ram. It also battered his fingers every few strikes. At this rate he doubted he would be able to hold a gun, if one ever came into his grasp again. A few times his timing was out and the sound he was making was exposed. He tensed, waiting for someone to come but no one did. Voulez-vous coucher avec moi rang out from the other side of the canal, as the DJ racked up the old song allowing Mark to increase his pounding. He’d just about lost all feeling in his right hand when something cracked, and he saw more light. Mark reached up as far as he could, thanking God for his height and pushed with all the strength he had left. There was more cracking and the doors pushed apart. Not much more than a few feet, but it was enough. He had room to haul himself up and squeeze out, to find himself standing on a ledge above the canal. Another boat passed and a few girls spotted him. They waved their glasses and shouted encouragement to him in English.

‘Going for a swim?’ one of them shouted.

I can’t swim, Mark thought, but then I couldn’t fly either.

He was out, with no passport and no money. He could find the British Embassy. Say he’d been robbed. He could tell them the whole crazy tale, make some bored clerk’s day, but something inside wouldn’t let him. It had never let him. A door marked trouble had always been open for him, and each time he’d crashed through it. As quickly as his torn hands would allow, Mark edged along the slippery brickwork of the canal wall, until he could drop down into an alleyway, startling a few cats. They slunk away from him with blazing eyes.

Stellachi lay in his bath. The water had to be warm, not hot. Hot was like coffee, it irritated, rubbed up his nerves. This was like bathing in that place in Sicily, floating, letting the current control him, and the sun absolve. Hakim fussing with the food on the beach, his thin body brown and taut. Away from everyone, especially the vile tourists. They’d go there again next spring, when this business would be finished. Maybe he’d buy a place.

Hakim brought in a tray. He poured out the tea slowly from the silver teapot, adding a small spoon of honey, letting it dissolve and merge with the mint leaves in the glass. Stellachi sat up in the bath as Hakim handed him the glass. Stellachi flicked up foam at him, playfully. This was when Hakim feared him most.

‘So, what do you think we must do with Richards, eh?’

Hakim knew he wasn’t required to answer. Stellachi often had one-sided conversations with him, like the old women in the cafés did with their dogs. A phone rang. The blue one Stellachi only used for the big people. Hakim handed it to him.

‘All is well?’ a voice asked.

‘Yes. Absolutely. I have him.’

‘Good. Make sure he disappears quickly. We want no repeat of London.’

‘I understand.’

Stellachi’s mood changed. He slapped the phone back into Hakim’s hands.

‘Get my robe.’

Stellachi sat by the window, deep in thought.

Below, the street was still busy. This was the cesspit he worked in. Stellachi could see some of the girls displayed in their glass houses. One of them always reminded him of his mother. The same hawkish features, the face lined too soon, trapped by her hopeless need, and the inability to satisfy it. He imagined a rifle in his hands, shooting at all that disgusted him. Seeing the harlots die with amazement on their faces, their windows turning red, shooting the pathetic voyeurs that thronged the street now, so that they too dropped like startled rabbits. Shooting those people who’d offered him money on the streets of Bucharest. The old men who took him to large houses full of stolen wealth. He’d killed one of them once, slitting his throat at the age of seventeen, watching the old fool’s blood cascade over his fancy furniture, and feeling alive for the first time in his life. It was worth living after that. It was the start of it. The payback for being born.

‘Hakim, bring me the dark blue suit, white shirt and the new blue tie.’

Stellachi decided to kill this Richards, without any further delay. To hell with his stupid little notebook. How could the man think to threaten him with something like that? Richards was out of his depth, and he would die for it. Twenty years of experience, from that first slit throat, to the Albanian girl, told him to take a chance with the notebook. If he was wrong, so what? He’d worked for these jackals long enough, and he liked the edge a gamble like this brought on. He was not Agani. Stellachi felt his body tremble, and felt a little breathless. Hakim handed him the clothes and he dressed slowly, checking each movement in a mirror as tall as him.

‘Do you like Mexico?’ Stellachi asked.

Hakim shrugged.

‘Of course, what would you know of it? Maybe we’ll go there after this. Yucatan, it will be hot, and empty. You will have to be careful, Hakim, lots of nice boys there. I might exchange you.’

Hakim would not mind this at all. At times like these, he thought that even death would be a release. He had began to imagine Stellachi dead, that a man such as this Richards would come along, and be stronger than him. Sometimes he imagined killing Stellachi himself, but chased the thoughts from his mind, so alarming were they. Another phone rang. Stellachi clicked his fingers and Hakim ran to answer it. It was Adam, the huge man that Stellachi often used. The man was frightened, something in his voice that Hakim hadn’t heard before. Stellachi took the phone from him.

‘Well?’

‘He’s gone.’

‘Tell me.’

‘The Englishman. I went to check on him, like you said. He was gone. Those old doors had been forced open. Smashed with something hard.’

‘As you will be.’

Adam went into a flood of Albanian which Stellachi could not follow and did not want to.

‘Shut up. Adam, you will find him. He has no money, clothes, no anything. You will find him, won’t you?’

Stellachi put down the phone in the middle of Adam’s assurances. They wouldn’t find him, this Richards was too good, and he, Stellachi, would not have to, for the man would come looking for him again. What else could he do? Stellachi was not displeased, this made it more interesting.

‘Hakim,’ Stellachi shouted, his voice vibrant and full of hope, ‘I think we will have a guest soon. We must make him welcome.’

Stellachi hummed an old tune to himself, something he’d heard the gypsies play when they came to the village. He opened the draw which contained his personal armoury. He fingered his favourite, the 9mm Luger, an ancient piece, but it had never let him down and he liked its history. Each chip in its metal casing told a story. Alongside two others was the seven-inch dagger Agani had given him. Its ivory handle matched his shirt, good workmanship, for Albania. Stellachi pressed it against his chest, felt its chill through his shirt. He’d always been a knife man, it was much more intimate, and satisfying. No need for noisy explosions and mess. He’d like to use it on Richards. Stellachi held it up against the light, and flicked patterns at Hakim’s face. The Arab boy’s wide eyes tried to hide, it was what they did best. His way of confirming his place in the order of things.

‘Hakim, I’m hungry. Go across to Wan Sing’s and get my usual, but order enough for three. And pour me a glass of the driest Amontillado before you go. The special bottle.’

‘For three?’

‘Yes, three.’

Hakim was slow to obey.

‘Why do you hesitate? Ah, you think this Richards might be out there, the bogeyman waiting for you, eh? Don’t worry, you are not wanted by him, otherwise you would be already dead.’

Stellachi snapped his fingers again. He could do this so strongly it always reminded Hakim of a whip cracking. As Hakim left, Stellachi savoured the pale sherry, moving it with his tongue around his teeth and pressing it into the hollows of his mouth before he swallowed. There goes my bait, he thought.

Mark was in Chinatown, and the first thing he saw was a pyramid of glazed ducks, piled high in a restaurant’s window. Mark couldn’t believe he could feel hunger at a time like this, but he did, and his stomach lurched with the many smells that surrounded him. Feeling around his pockets to see if any coins had been left he found one or two euros, not much good for anything, other than a cup of coffee.

He kept to the shadows as much as possible. Plenty of others did the same in this part of town. They’d taken his jacket and his shirt was stained and bloody. He touched his head gingerly. He’d had worse. Stellachi has just wanted to quiet him down, that bastard didn’t want him banged up too much. Not yet. Mark flexed his hands, they still moved well enough but his nails were smashed, and all his fingertips bloody.

They’d be checking up on him regularly, until Stellachi came for him. He might have just a few minutes of surprise left. He looked around to get his bearings, and found he was only a few hundred yards from Stellachi’s place. Mark hardly dared think this was a piece of luck.

Mark bought a takeaway coffee with his coins, then faded back into a side alley. The coffee was too hot, but he drank it straight away, letting it scald his throat. He needed its support, for it was a cold night to be standing in the midst of your enemies in a bloodied shirt. A prostitute started to approach him, then saw his state and turned away.

Mark couldn’t remember what fucking day it was, or how long it had been now, Post Lena. He couldn’t even remember Julie’s mobile number. Maybe that was just as well, because he might be tempted to phone her on reverse charge. For them to exchange voices one last time. That would be pathetic, and a final dagger into her heart.

The closer Mark got to Stellachi’s place, the more the need for care. Maybe Stellachi wouldn’t be there and he could wait for him. Again. Maybe pigs flew to the moon on pink pork wings.

He got to the rear of the club without trouble. The music that pounded in the front was muffled here, just the low thud of the bass, and the suggestion of movement from the dancers inside. From the glimpse of the club he’d had coming down Stellachi’s stairs, Mark couldn’t understand how the man could live here. He should be over the other side of town, amongst the fine town-houses and tulips, but there was no reason why anything about Stellachi should make sense. This made trying to second-guess his actions difficult. Back on the estate, in the closed-in valley, Mark had been Stellachi, the unpredictable Psycho Eyes, but that counted for little here.

Mark was on the fire escape again. He couldn’t believe he’d got this far. All the luck he’d never had in his life was coming now. Maybe they didn’t know he was out yet. Stellachi should have killed him straight off. His mistake.

There was a noise at the entrance to the alleyway and Mark froze against the wall. A couple of kids staggered into sight, the boy pawing at the girl with drunken hands, she half pushing him away, half pulling him onto her. All Mark needed. The girl saw his outline and said something to her boyfriend.

‘What’s your game, mate?’ rang out at him, in best south London tones.

Mark would have to go to plan B, the one that didn’t exist.

‘Just having a piss,’ Mark answered, in his best valley voice.

He abandoned the fire escape idea, and walked past the startled couple, expecting Adam and his friend to appear at any moment. They didn’t, but Hakim did. Walking past the alleyway entrance with a carrier bag of food in his hand. Instant action came from instant decisions and Mark made one. He stepped up besides Hakim pressing a finger against his neck then digging it in.

‘Good, you’ve got food. I could use some,’ Mark said.

Hakim began to squirm.

‘Keep walking. If you try anything I’ll put a bullet into your brain.’

They were outside the club. A doorman was fussing with a few customers in the street and they were past him and up the stairs in seconds. This was like the raid on Agani’s penthouse all over again. Easy. Willing him on. They stopped outside Stellachi’s door. Old wood laced with a fancy ironwork design. It looked like it could withstand a siege, but it didn’t have a spy hole. Stellachi didn’t think he needed one.

‘Is he here?’ Mark whispered, digging his finger in harder.

‘No, he’s out looking for you. They know you got away, somehow.’

‘No, I don’t think so, Hakim. Eating all this yourself, are you?’

Mark gave the large bag a nudge with his knee. It smelt good and Mark took it from the boy. It would have to do as a weapon. Deadly killer overcome with flying sweet and sour, hah hah. He was going from the desperate to the bizarre, but he was still going.

Mark bent down to Hakim’s level and whispered in his ear.

‘If you want to live, do exactly as I say. Open the door slowly, walk in, and tell that bastard you are back. If you do it calmly, you can fuck off back down the stairs.’

The English guy was a madman, Hakim thought, but then they all were, all the men he’d come into contact with through Stellachi were the same. Powerful, violent men, all twisted and looking to control and to hurt. Maybe this was what being powerful meant.

Hakim opened the door and Mark stepped in with him. It was almost dark, just a few red candles in silver holders burning on a table. The place reeked of incense and Mark felt Hakim tense in his grasp. There was slight movement to his right. Stellachi whispered out of the darkness.

‘My gun is six inches from your head. Don’t make me use it. There’s been enough mess here from you. You can give the food back to Hakim now. It’s good to see you again, my friend.’

Mark could not say he was surprised, not after the week he’d had. Stellachi moved in front of him, and switched on a main light. Mark blinked, and saw Lena’s killer again, standing the same height as him, but a bit leaner, and as sharply dressed as a knife. He felt Stellachi’s eyes all over him, and there was just the hint of a smile on the man’s face as he checked out Mark’s state. Stellachi held a Luger in his hand – Mark recognised it from all the old films he’d seen.

‘Come in,’ Stellachi said. ‘How do they say it in Spain, ‘mi casa es su casa.’

He also said something to Hakim and the boy took the food into the kitchen. A table had already been laid amongst the candles.

‘Do you like the fragrances?’ Stellachi said. ‘I am burning two, Khamriah, Hakim’s favourite, and Misk Al Ameer, my choice. They combine so sweetly, like lovers.’

They reminded Mark of cheap hairdresser’s salons in the valley.

Stellachi was casual and on full alert at the same time. He had about seven years on Mark but was probably at his physical peak.

‘So, here we are. Amongst us, you have become a minor celebrity, Mark, and I want to thank you for disposing of that useless trash in London. Much appreciated, but unfortunate. These matters always lead elsewhere, and for you, they have led to me.’

Stellachi went through his fingers routine and Hakim appeared with a tray of drinks, shaking it so much that the glass of beer had spilled some of its froth.

‘Careful, Hakim, we don’t want our guest to think we are untidy, eh? Keep the food warm, I’ll tell you when we are ready. I took the liberty of ordering for you, Mark. I knew you would be along.’ Stellachi took up his glass. ‘I thought you’d prefer beer,’ he murmured.

Mark drank the beer. He had gone over this moment so many times in his head that a bullet was no longer anticipated. It was already in him.

‘Cheers,’ Mark said.

Each man appraised the other at eye-level. Mark thought about throwing the glass in Stellachi’s face, and charging him, but he could never be fast enough. Not with this man.

‘Can I sit down?’ Mark asked.

Stellachi gestured to the sofa with his left hand and Mark sat next to the stain.

‘Yes, unpleasant, isn’t it? You gave Hakim quite a fright.’

Stellachi sat down at the table and made a point of putting the Luger down on it. Maybe he’s a frustrated cowboy, Mark thought, certainly the man liked a bit of show, to play games and he was totally confident.

‘So,’ Stellachi said, ‘here we are. Less than a week ago you had a woman and we had four men in England. Now they are all gone. A pity.’

Mark could see Stellachi entering the flat in London. Lena would have thought it was him, coming home early. She would have run to meet him, in that excited, girlish way of hers. He felt his hands tightening, forming fists. He worked hand to control his right hand, or it would have shattered the glass it held. Stellachi nodded and said something in another language. He seemed to be talking to himself, his eyes half shut, but Mark knew they saw everything.

‘Yes, hate has you in its hold,’ Stellachi said. ‘A powerful emotion, very admirable, but you knew about it before, didn’t you? Before Lena. It’s always been in you, I can smell it. I know that smell. A man like you should work for us,’ Stellachi continued. ‘No, I’m not going to make you an offer, too much has happened for that, and the woman would always be between us, but I do want to talk about these.’

Stellachi tapped the copied pages of the notebook. He kept his left hand close to the Luger. He’s a southpaw, Mark thought, or maybe two-handed, which didn’t make things easier. Stellachi’s voice changed, it became colder, and raised in pitch.

‘Did you really think you could bargain with this? That it would save you?’

Mark drank the beer as coolly as he could and tried to smile a little. This man liked to talk. He must have talked to a lot of people he’d killed.

Your name is there, this place, all the slime you deal with,’ Mark said.

‘Do you think a stupid policeman could understand this?’

‘If he’s pointed in the right direction, and I’ve made sure he will be.’

‘So.’

Stellachi’s hand curled around the gun, the skull’s head ring on his little finger catching the candlelight, then he relaxed again. This man doesn’t know what he’s going to do himself, Mark thought. That makes two of us.

‘Hakim,’ Stellachi said, ‘you can serve the food now.’

Mark sat opposite Stellachi at the black table, the Luger just on Stellachi’s side of no-man’s land. He’s giving me the sniff of a chance, Mark thought, encouraging me to go for it. Mark found that he could eat, within a few feet of Lena’s killer. It was good food and his stomach welcomed it, as he concentrated on his next move. Each moment was evaluated, every minute he weighed up the chances of an attack. This was a matter of wills. A game for killers.

‘The duck is good, no? Some say it’s too greasy, but it’s an underrated fowl, I always think. Wan Sing’s is the best in Amsterdam.’

Hakim opened a bottle of wine, fighting hard to control his shaking hands, and served both men. Mark wanted to duplicate Stellachi’s every move. He wasn’t sure why, beer and wine would hardly sharpen up his senses, but he needed to. Maybe it was a matter of honour, whatever that word meant. Luck, chance, even destiny had got him to this point. He was still alive.