Catalyst (3 page)

“I could take the Jason thing, anyway,” he went on, “if it wasn't for the fact that he's the one who got Katey and Jack involved with this Mickey. I don't believe anything but pain will come from that association. And I'm not the only one who believes that, am I?”

“That concern isn't by any chance anything to do with the NJR, is it?” Mags asked.

“I don't follow what you mean,” he replied. “Is that an attempt to get the argument back on track again?”

“No, I just wondered… but if you really don't follow… then I guess the question's answered.”

“What the hell!” Tom's anger was quick to rise again. “We're into riddles now. Just say what you mean; put me out of my misery. On second thoughts, don't bother. Whatever you think of it, I have to get this work done, so would you please go to bed and let me get on with it. Please, Mags.”

She sighed, suddenly weary of the conversation, and turned to leave the room. Tom was momentarily overcome by a feeling of regret.

“Mags!” he shouted after her.

She turned in the doorway and stood, hands on hips, feet slightly apart, to face him. Her short robe, with its belt pulled tightly around her, hung loose and wide from her shoulders and gaped open below her waist. Even with her mass of golden-blonde hair tangled by her restless sleep and without a trace of make-up, she was almost impossibly beautiful.

“Do you remember how we used to resolve these differences?” he said, gently. “I used to enjoy the arguments then, knowing how they were going to end.”

Mags said nothing.

“It was nice, wasn't it?” he went on. “And not that long ago.”

She looked at him sadly, with glistening eyes softened by her own memories. “Yes,” she said, in a whisper. “It was nice, then. More than just nice.” Then the moment was over; her expression changed again. “But you're wrong about the timescale. It was a
lifetime
ago.”

She turned and completed her exit, calling back to him as she left. “Tell Katey when she gets in to come and see me if she wants to.”

“Okay,” Tom called back, and then much more loudly, “How is it that you've been stomping around for half an hour because I allegedly woke you up with the gentle tinkling of a breaking mug, and now you want me to set up a meeting
later
tonight with your daughter?”

Mags was back again in the doorway, startling Tom with her sudden reappearance.

“Yes, if that's okay,” she said. “I thought it would take the pressure off you having to make a speech to her while you're preparing this one. And I just happened to be getting up to go to the bathroom when you assassinated my mug; that's how I came to hear it.”

“Well that was lucky, wasn't it?” he replied. “It saved you having to lie on the carpet with your ear to the floor hoping to hear some noise to complain about. Perhaps we should take the carpet up altogether and you might be able to pick up the sound of my breathing.”

“Now that's a sound I wouldn't miss,” she said, turning majestically away to leave the room again. “Good night,” she shouted back, with exaggerated good humour.

Tom called after her. “Do you want me to tell Katey about the broken mug, or shall I just put the pieces in her room so she can find them?”

There was no reply. He watched her go, the sadness returning.

A lifetime ago. Not quite…

CHAPTER 2

Three years ago…

It was eerily dark for an early evening in the first week of May. The advancing storm clouds, like a gigantic blue-black carpet unrolling across a marble floor, had brought on the night a couple of hours earlier than the season intended.

On the ground, violent normality prevailed.

It was the classic trap – bait and wait.

The two howling police cars were confronted by a two-deep line of wheelie bins as they swung into Kingdom Road, which was the only vehicular access to the square. The roaring flames behind the bins showed the obstacles in stark silhouette along with the figures dancing back and forth on top of them, preventing the police from just driving through and pushing them aside.

Kingdom Road was a rather grand name for the 200 yards of tarmac with four closes leading off it – two either side. At the end was the square – a rectangle, in fact – the back of which comprised a row of ten garages, wi th two lines of parking spaces forming its sides. Three cars were ablaze at one side of the area, with the fire threatening to spread rapidly.

The fire station was just three streets away from Kingdom Road and the mob had banked on the appliances getting there ahead of the police. The bins had been hastily pulled into place as soon as the second fire engine had arrived on the scene, an impressive two-and-a-half minutes after the first emergency call had been received.

Their appearance had been greeted with the usual resounding jeers and abuse which the fire officers both expected and feared. Their unease was heightened considerably by the absence of the police. Nevertheless, they alighted quickly to begin the well-oiled routine they had rehearsed on hundreds of occasions. Only here it was very different.

As they released the hoses from their mountings, they were assailed by a hail of stones, bricks and bottles from the crowd of around sixty youths, mainly in their early to mid-teens but some even younger, and two officers went down under the attack. The crews were forced to retreat immediately back into their vehicles carrying their wounded with them.

A large number of the gang advanced, screaming and shouting and climbing onto the appliances, unravelling the hoses and swinging from the ladders. Some started to smash the cab windows with iron bars, pieces of concrete and the metal nozzles of the hoses. The fire crews covered their heads inside to protect themselves as best they could.

The arrival of the police cars, having negotiated the barriers and now backed up by two armoured anti-riot vans, served only to switch the point of attack. As they sprang from the vehicles to tackle the youths surrounding the appliances, a second wave came screaming at them.

It was a well-orchestrated ambush with the police caught by surprise by another salvo of missiles. They had arrived in numbers, however, with most of them in full protective riot gear, and both groups began to fall back away from the square as the line of officers advanced behind their shields. The fire crews got to work on the burning vehicles attempting to stop the fires spreading to the garages and the other cars. Two ambulances arrived at the scene and the paramedics attended the injured crew members. The crowd was still retreating slowly away from the square before the advancing police line and the worst of the incident seemed to be over.

At the perimeter of this mayhem, three men, older by a few years than the rest of the mob, were watching the events unfold with smug satisfaction. With all attention focused elsewhere, the smallest of the three broke from cover and threw something over the emergency vehicles into the road. He retreated quickly, diving behind a wall and covering his ears, as the stun grenade exploded, blinding everyone facing the explosion for a few seconds and temporarily deafening everyone in the square. The man in a black baseball cap standing behind a white van parked near the corner of one of the closes, ducked back quickly behind the vehicle and covered his ears just in time to avoid the incapacitating effect of the explosion. Several upstairs windows in the houses closest to the scene were shattered and glass fell onto porch roofs and into gardens.

The police and fire crews recovered quickly as another appliance arrived along with two further police cars and a third ambulance. The three men were smoking and chatting casually again as they continued to watch the action in the aftermath of the grenade. The man behind the van had barely taken his eyes off them as the carnage escalated. With so much to deflect his attention, it was surprising that he could stay focused on three stationary forms for so long, but his mind was consumed by his interest in them and all else around him was incidental to the scene, except as justification for his obsession.

His only small distraction was to notice that, despite the blitz happening on their very doorsteps, not one resident around the square was watching. Earlier, every curtain had been pulled back and lights were already on in many of the houses. However, as the crowd had gathered, curtains were quickly closed and lights extinguished. The man thought of the people sitting fearfully in the near-darkness, with only the firelight from outside dancing on the windows to illuminate their lives.

The police held their line well without yielding to the temporary effects of the explosion, and with the arrival of reinforcements, they looked like they were containing the situation. Suddenly, the intense black canopy was split by a blinding white gash and a sound like the crack of a thousand whips as the storm broke. It started raining, heavily and mercifully.

The flames were rapidly quenched by the combination of nature and human resolve and the crowd dispersed, hurling a few token missiles as they left the area. The physical crisis was over. Smoke and steam rose silently in ever decreasing plumes from the metal wreckage; but more clouds of despair had gathered over the Cullen Field Estate.

The arrival of the three brothers at the Wild Boar Inn, a few streets away from the disturbance, had an immediate impact. Up to that moment it had been just another Saturday night, with the atmosphere increasing in energy and volume. Conversations which had been light-hearted and animated suddenly stopped altogether or continued in subdued tones. All the good humour seemed to have been sucked out through the door as the men entered.

They looked round the place as they walked across to the bar, leaving a trail of water on the floor, and challenging anyone to make eye contact. A few nodded and a couple offered a muted greeting.

“Three pints, Ned,” said the eldest of the men. He was tall and muscular, and wore a dark brown canvas jacket over a tight black tee shirt, blue jeans and sand-coloured desert boots. His head was shaved and his neck heavily tattooed in a continuous design stretching from behind his ears and round beneath his chin, disappearing under his shirt. His face was hard and challenging.

They each pulled themselves up onto a bar stool and leant in a line at the bar.

“Don't know what's happening on Kingdom,” said the barman, as he pulled the pints. “Sounds like a fucking air-raid.”

“Kids, probably,” said one of the other two men and all three laughed. This second man was much the smallest of the three, just under medium height and lightly built, with black hair long enough to hang over the neck of his grey hooded top. He wore matching grey jogging pants and expensive trainers. He had a twitching, fidgeting manner and a permanent scowl, compensating for his lack of stature with an attitude of simmering aggression. He unzipped his top and pulled it open, shaking off the moisture onto the floor.

“You guys okay?” said Ned, gaining in confidence and relaxing a little. He was a smallish man, pale and balding with a hunted look which made him seem totally unsuited for this sort of charged environment.

“Apart from being pissing wet through and dying of thirst. Just get the fucking drinks, for Christ's sake!” said the first man.

The landlord, who had just finished serving another customer, walked up.

“Okay, Ned, I'll take over,” he said. He finished pulling the last pint and handed it to the eldest man.

“Ten pound fifty,” he said.

“Can't believe you can charge that much with a straight face for this fucking whippet piss,” said the man. “Start a tab.”

“You can start another tab when you've paid off the last one,” said the landlord. “In the meantime, ten pound fifty. And if the lager's that crap, Jimmy, I'd be delighted if you'd go and drink somewhere else.”

Max Jordan was a very large man. Most of his weight was now in front of him and his shirt gaped open between every button. But he was a formidable presence all the same, with a bull neck, shaved head and thick, muscular forearms covered in tattoos. Even so, more than anyone he had encountered in thirty years behind a bar, these three pushed his courage to the limit. He knew this could turn bad at any time. But not tonight; not yet.

“Give him the money, Kev,” said Jimmy to the small one.

“Fuck off. I didn't even want to come in here tonight,” replied Kevin. Even so, he took out a twenty pound note and handed it over.

“Shall I knock the change off your tab?” said the landlord.

“Don't fucking push it!”

“Fine.” He handed over the change.

During this exchange, a stranger had entered the pub and taken up a position on a stool next to them. The man was in his early forties, with a dark beard which was not much more than a few days' stubble. His eyes were intense and alert, but not unfriendly. He was tall and slim, and wore a black baseball cap pulled down low over his forehead, a long black leather jacket and a pair of faded jeans.