Down into Darkness (35 page)

Pretty Boy feinted to the head, and the Wigger swayed. Pretty Boy came the other way, getting in a hook to the heart that rocked the Wigger just a little. He bored in, using his
shoulders and head, his weight taking Pretty Boy back to the chain-link. The Wigger put in two solid punches to the ribs and heard his man grunt.

Okay, you skinny shit, you're meat. You're
my
meat.

Business as usual up on the Strip.

Crack, scag, brown, E, ganja, benz, speed, dex, angel, oxy, reds, black whack, diesel, barb, Nazi crank, blow, skunk. The whores were doing some midday back-seat business, some alley-wall business, even some backroom business where the guy had the time and the price. The shebeens and the basement casinos were running two-way traffic. An Imola-red BMW was cruising the side streets, on the prowl, the boys just a little juiced on some of the Strip's low-budget products.

They found Donna as she was leaving Store24 with a few things she'd bought and a few things she'd lifted. It could have been any one of a dozen girls who liked to hang with the Toyota Team, but Donna was there, and Donna would do just fine. When the Beamer passed her, then came to a stop, she turned to run, but two of the Beamer Boys had got out a little way back and were right behind her, smiling broad smiles. As they hustled her to the car, she screamed, and one of the boys slapped her hard in the face; then she was in, a boy on each side of her, the driver shifting down a gear, the tyres whinnying.

Toni's maybe-boyfriend looked Donna up and down: micro-skirt, crop-top, spaghetti straps, deep cleavage, ebony skin, a dew-drop of blood under her nose from the slap.

He said, ‘They shot my girlfriend in the ass.' Donna had nothing to say on the subject. ‘So there has to be payback, yeah? Some kind of ass thing. Something we can do to your ass. Any ideas?' On ass-work, Donna was mute. The boyfriend laughed. He said, ‘We'll think of something.'

*

Three five-minute rounds and it had become pretty clear, with one to go, that the fight was an even match: the Wigger's punching power and stamina, sure, but also the Pretty Boy's skill and cage-craft. The Wigger did damage whenever he got close. It was likely that Pretty Boy had a rack of cracked ribs; he'd also taken a few to the face, and both his eyes had cut, leaving broad tributaries of blood on his cheeks and neck. The Wigger wasn't marked in that way, but Pretty Boy had landed a lot of punches from the side and the back, most of them taking the Wigger on the neck or high on the skull and the man had a foggy look about him: his face vacant, sometimes, as he turned to find his opponent.

The men stood at either side of the cage, their backs to the mesh, Pretty Boy breathing hard, his hands at his sides, the Wigger holding his fists up as if he'd forgotten to drop them and eyeballing the crowd as if to say, ‘Don't doubt me.'

Ricardo was still collecting bets, though he was giving evens now. People who'd bet the Wigger were howling at him to finish the job: he could do it, the guy was out on his feet, blinded by blood, easy pickings. Sekker was looking smug: a man in the know. When the fighters came out for the last, the Wigger seemed to have been listening to ringside advice, because he went in hard and fast, hooking to the head. Pretty Boy took one and seemed to soak it up, then went down on one knee. The Wigger leaned in, still punching, but his opponent had his arms up, crossed at the wrist, deflecting.

When the Wigger shifted position to find kicking range, Pretty Boy rolled and got to his feet, back-pedalling fast, knowing the other man would be hunting him down.

Street cops have contacts, and Brian Collier hadn't been Acting DI for so long that he'd lost touch. Sitting behind his desk with its files and folders and downloads, he could feel his bones calcifying and his blood thickening. His trip to Stonebridge to see a chis had been pretty fruitless, all in all – a chis would have contacts too, and some of them would be men more than happy to kill, but they killed to a purpose: intimidation, revenge, profit. They might even enjoy their work, but their work wasn't random. Criminal businesses have their killers just as corporate businesses have their lawyers.

He threw the Freelander across two lanes, getting a horn blast from a trucker, and settled down on the outside lane, knowing he would have to cut back at the next set of lights. The Freelander was big and pushy, which was why he liked it. Carbon footprint? What carbon footprint?

When he made the switch, the car to his left was anticipating it and slipped down a gear, outpacing him. He glanced sideways – boys out for a ride, out for trouble, their sound-system loud enough to ripple the windscreen. As he watched, a girl in the back seat signalled him, her mouth wide open, before a boy on her left put a hand to her head, pushing her sideways and out of sight.

The Beamer made a turn off the main road into the web of housing that surrounds the Strip. Collier followed. He could see the girl's arm, raised, as if to protect her face, the boy leaning in, his hand also raised.

*

Sekker was looking at Ricardo, Ricardo was looking at his feet, everyone else was looking at the cage, where Pretty Boy was on his knees and taking hefty kicks. There was a minute left on the clock. The Wigger shifted position to take the man under the heart and that would have ended things, but he somehow missed his kick. You couldn't see how it had happened, though the slightly vacant look on his face was a clue. He fell back and rolled over. Pretty Boy got into a crouch and stayed there for a moment, then straightened up; he seemed just too tired to get to his opponent.

The Wigger was close to the cage-side. He spread his fingers and got a hold on the mesh, then pulled himself partly upright; a second hand-hold got him to his feet. He looked across to where his opponent was standing at the centre of the cage, his face a blood-mask, blood dripping from his jawline to his chest, a red web, a map of pain. Pretty Boy took a step forward and grimaced, as if his cracked ribs might suddenly collapse like spillikins. You could hear him wheeze. The Wigger bounced on his toes; he did a little jig.

The jig said, Hey, I'm fine. I'm in great shape. And look at you: like you were in a car crash, like you were in a head-on. So I'm gonna dance over there and pound the living shit outta you. Get ready, sucker, because here I come.

The ringside judge stopped the clock as it came up to the fifth minute. One other rule in cage-fighting – no ties.

Maybe the Boys in the Beamer hadn't noticed the Freelander follow, or maybe they'd seen it but didn't care. Collier had put in a call for back-up, but he hadn't expected the Imola-red car to stop quite so soon. He made another fast call, giving the street name and postcode. A voice told him that an ARV was five minutes away. Five, maybe a little more. Donna was being hauled out of the car. The micro-skirt had gone. She stood in the street in her crop-top and heels and panties,
the boys circling, laughing, herding her towards a house with a faded red door. The windows in the street were blank, as if no eye had ever looked through them.

If the boys had been having less fun, Collier might have been seen earlier. He shouted, ‘
Hey!
' He was holding his warrant card up and out, as if it might make a difference. The boys turned to look at him.

One of them produced the Brocock
ME
38.

When it comes to strength, when it comes to energy, when it comes to lactic acid and oxygen depletion, there's a limit to how far you can reach inside yourself. These are physical attributes, and everyone has limited resources. When they've run out, though, there's another reserve that you can draw on. People think it's courage, but that's only likely to keep you going until you're completely drained. The thing most likely to get you out of trouble is intelligence.

Pretty Boy looked across to where the Wigger was dancing and ducking, his fists pummelling the air, and knew that the man had about an ounce left, maybe a gram. On the other hand, Pretty Boy could feel something closing in on him, like being on the edge of sleep; on the edge of death. He thought that a single movement might tip him over.

He looked at the Wigger, smiling through blood, and spoke to him. He couldn't be heard over the howling from the bleachers, but the words were readable to everyone.

Pussy. You fucking pussy.

The Wigger stumbled slightly in his jig. He righted himself and took a step forward. The punters bayed and screamed. Blood wasn't enough; blood and bone weren't enough; blood
money
– that was the issue. Their man crossed towards the middle of the cage, looking to be light on his feet, shedding energy he didn't have. When he was a little more than an arm's length off, he made a rush.

Pretty Boy sidestepped and swung wildly, using his arm as if it were nailed on, taking the Wigger a little below the waistline of his shorts, making him check, as if he'd stopped to think. The next blow came from the side, two-handed, ill-aimed, but deflecting off the boss of the Wigger's shoulder and connecting with his throat.

The Wigger took a step back, then another, knees bending, arms out as if looking for support. He sat down hard and bowed low, his head falling towards his knees.

He stayed like that. The ringside judge rang the bell.

Collier saw the gun, but there was nowhere to go. He was out in the middle of the street walking fast towards them, no cover either side, his own car more than twenty feet behind him. Nowhere to go but on. Donna was looking at him as if he were Mister Too-little-too-late. The boys were laughing.

Collier said, ‘Shoot me. You'd better shoot me, you little bastard, because if I get over there I'm going to fucking kill you.' He knew that the closer he got, the more unmissable he became. ‘Put the gun down, put the girl down, and that'll do for now.'

Donna took half a step towards Collier, and the boyfriend pulled her back. Just for a moment the boy with the gun turned the weapon towards Donna, as if he might threaten Collier by threatening her. In that moment Collier reckoned he had something of a chance. He thought,
This guy's thinking of alternatives; he doesn't want to shoot a copper
.

He kept walking. He was fifteen feet away, when the boy with the Brocock lined up on Collier and fired.

Sekker and Ricardo were in the living room of 1169, Block B. Tina was in the bedroom, being invisible.

Sekker said, ‘You're full of shit, you know that? Straight fight?' He laughed. ‘Listen, they made a good job of it. That good-looker? – he knows how to take punishment.'

Ricardo had seen the fighter afterwards, and he wasn't so pretty any more: eyes so swollen he could hardly see, front teeth gone, a cheekbone broken, his nose Z-shaped. He was just a Harefield regular, no connections to crime, with a wife and family to care for. It had been three years since he'd had work, and the fight purse of five grand was more money than he'd ever seen in one place in his life. The gate had grossed eight grand, the book three, and the DVD would make a couple of thousand without the download money: all Ricardo's.

Sekker was drinking the six-pack he'd brought with him. He said, ‘So, a good day about to get better. You've got something for me.'

Ricardo handed him a sheet of paper. Written on it were a code word, a telephone number, a bank account number and a man's name: Vanechka. It was a laundry line.

Sekker looked at it. ‘This all?'

‘He'll know. Make the call, give the code word, ask for the money to be deposited in that account.'

‘This name – Vanechka…' He got the stress wrong: Vanech-
kah
.

‘The money travels, okay? It goes on holiday, takes things easy for a while. Then it has to start work. The question is: what does it do? Earn interest? Buy property? Invest itself?

There's another question: how soon does your man want it to come back to him? He'll know all this. After a while, he'll get a phone call – which way to go? He'll be talking to this man, Vanechka. Or he should be. Tell him to make sure.'

Sekker took his beer with him when he left. Ricardo went into the bedroom. Tina had been packing; she closed the lid on the last case and zipped it up.

Ricardo said, ‘You can write that letter to Stella. I'll tell you what to say.'

Collier felt as if someone had nudged him. Next moment he reached the boy with the Brocock and hit him, all his weight behind the punch. Something broke under his fist and the boy went down. The gun skittered along the road.

Collier took Donna by the arm and pulled her towards him. The boyfriend hadn't let go, so Collier hit him too: a couple of short-arm blows that came straight out of the training manual. He pushed Donna towards the Freelander and she kept going, looking over her shoulder, half expecting one of the boys to come after her, but they were more interested in Collier, who had gone in the opposite direction and collected the gun. The boy who'd had the gun was on his feet now and standing next to the boyfriend.

Collier couldn't work out why they had neither attacked nor run. He waved the gun in their general direction and said, ‘Who's next?'

When he put a round through the windscreen of the Beamer, the boys decided it was time. They piled into the car. The driver knocked out the shattered windscreen glass, and they reversed hard, whacking the side of the Freelander, then coming round on the handbrake. They cleared the junction and hit the main road as the ARV arrived. The driver paused long enough to get an okay from Collier, then kept going, the Imola-red Beamer just in sight.

Donna was standing in the road, high heels and panties. She seemed to be putting out an arm, as if needing assistance, and Collier went towards her, his own arm extended, then he saw the look on her face and realized she was not reaching but pointing. Pointing at him.

He looked down and saw his shirt, a blue shirt, red from armpit to waist. That explained things: the boys had been waiting for him to drop.