The Evil And The Pure (10 page)

Gawl ran his gaze over the table one last time, making sure he hadn’t missed anything, then
faced Janet Adams and smiled like a snake. Decided to tease her a little. “Where’s the safe?” he growled.

“I don’t have
one,” Janet said, not turning around.

“Don’t lie t
’ me,” Gawl shouted, then thought about the neighbours and lowered his voice. “Tell me where the safe is or I’ll cut yer tits off.”

Janet made a weird sound, half-sob, half-laugh. “Good luck,” she sneered with unexpected strength. “Breast cancer. Both had to be removed.”

Gawl’s face dropped and he snarled, “Think ye’re fucking clever?”

“No,” Janet said quickly, resilience fading as swiftly as it flared.

“Come here.”

Janet half-turned, stalled, faced the wall again. “Please,” she sobbed. “You have what you came for.
Leave me alone.”

“Do
n’t tell me my fucking business,” Gawl hissed. “Get over here.” When Janet didn’t obey, he crossed the room, grabbed her by her neck and dragged her to the dressing table. She cried out with pain and fear. He squeezed tightly to silence her, then shoved her to the floor. As she wept and shook, he opened the drawer where the bible was nestled and yanked out the holy book.

“Are ye religious, Janet?” he asked slyly. She moaned in response. “What was that?” He
kicked the floor by her stomach. She winced and sucked her body away from him as if he’d connected. “Speak up, girl. D’ ye believe in God?”

“Of… course,” she gasped, sobbing, covering her eyes with her hands, wishing
the horrible intruder gone, fearful of what he intended.

“D’ ye think he’s looking down
on us now?” Gawl asked conversationally. “D’ ye think he’s watching, thinking I’m an awful wee man, feeling pity for ye?” Janet shook her head and didn’t answer. “What was that? I didn’t catch it.”

“I don’t… know,” Janet wheezed.
“Please… don’t hurt me.”

“Hurt ye
?” Gawl blinked innocently. “D’ ye think I’m gonna rape ye?” Janet moaned. “Silly auld cow. I already told ye that wasn’t my thing.”

“Please,” Janet sobbed. “You have everything. Go. Don’t hurt me.”

“I’m not gonna hurt ye,” Gawl laughed. “I just want t’ pray wi’ ye before I go.”

The old woman’s sob caught in her throat. She stared at the tall, evil man. “You want… to
pray
… with me?”

“Aye.” Gawl shook the bible. “Let’s say a
wee prayer and ask God t’ forgive me. Is that OK, Janet, or would ye rather not pray wi’ a miserable sinner like me?”

“I… I’ll pray with you if you’re serious,” Janet said, wiping tear
s from her cheeks, half-hopeful. Perhaps the brute could be redeemed, maybe he’d see the error of his ways, return the objects he’d stolen, reform, put the wickedness of his past behind him and…

“That’s fucking brilliant,” Gawl beamed, then dropped the bible, undid his jeans
and exposed himself. Janet moaned and shut her eyes, bitter at herself for her foolish surge of hope. “Open up,” Gawl cooed.

“Go away,
” she snapped.

“That’s not very Christian of ye,” Gawl tutted. “I’m giving ye the chance t’ save my wretched soul. Don’t ye want t’ save me?”

Janet opened her eyes and gazed hatefully at the man who’d brought mockery into her life. “All sins are paid,” she whispered. “You’ll suffer for your arrogance and crimes, not only in the next world, but in this. God punishes. You’re a fool if you think he doesn’t.”

Gawl’s eyes narrowed.
She had no right talking to him like that. It wasn’t her place to lecture him. He could kill her. He’d killed before and had been waiting a long time to strike again. He took a step towards the woman, fingers spreading, nostrils flaring, the taste of murder thick on his tongue, penis hardening as he pictured her throat between his hands, choking, tongue sticking out, eyes bulging. He’d release her, let her think he’d stopped, then fall upon her again and…

“
No,” he groaned aloud, stopping short of the terrified Janet. Fr Sebastian knew he was here. If he killed her, the priest would have an unbreakable hold over him. Gawl had been careful all his life, almost never succumbing to his murderous impulses, killing only when it was safe, when he couldn’t be held to ransom.

“Did ye think I was gonna get bloody on ye, Janet?” Gawl chuckled sickly, making a joke of it. “Ye have t’ learn t’ relax — separate the real fears from the bullshit, right? Now, let’s pray.” Gawl looked down, located the bible, stepped over it so that it lay a few inches on the floor in front of him. “Kneel, Janet,” he ordered. “Hands together on yer knees.” W
hen she didn’t react, he barked at her, “Kneel!” This time she obeyed, face haggard, weeping fresh tears. “That’s good. Now, repeat after me. ‘I believe in one dog…’”

“‘I believe in…’” Janet started,
then stopped.

“Go on,” he urged her.

“No,” she croaked. “I won’t take the Lord’s name in vain.”

“Say it,” Gawl said softly, “or I’ll slit yer fucking throat, right?” Bluffing, but she didn’t dare
test his resolve.

“‘I… believe in… one dog,’” she moaned, silently begging God to forgive her, praying he’d take mercy on a poor old woman too frightened and weak to be a martyr for her beliefs.

“‘The alsation almighty,’” Gawl chuckled.

“‘
The alsation… almighty,’” Janet sighed.

“‘Creator of howls and piss,’” Gawl said and urinated on the bible, a steady yellow stream, howling softly so as not to disturb the neighbours.

Janet closed her eyes, blessed herself, then muttered sickly, “‘Creator of howls and piss.’”

Gawl laughed and went on pissing, power in the defilement, showing Janet Adams how
strong he was, how free he was. Showing God, Dave Bushinsky and Eyes Burton. Showing the world and everybody who’d crossed him over the years. Showing himself. Showing them all.

october 2000

September
bled into October, shortening days, weather turning, London gearing itself up for the coming winter. Big Sandy busy, something new every day, the Bush deploying him wherever he could be of use, making the most of his violent talents.

Two
of the Bush’s men accepted a shipment of heroin which had come a long, twisting route through Europe. The Russian sellers were new contacts, the Bush not sure he could trust them, so Big Sandy was sent along armed to the teeth. He stood silently on the sidelines while the deal was going down, ready to wade in if the Russkies tried to pull a fast one.

A woman from the Bush’s old neighbourhood comp
lained to him about her husband. Eric Flowers was a drunk who beat her and their children. She was sick of it but couldn’t go to the police — the pair were pickpockets, they worked pubs and clubs together, he could rat her out if she had him sent down. Big Sandy waited for Eric at their home one night, wife and kids gone on a short vacation. A painful lesson, cracked ribs, shattered nose, the two smallest fingers on each hand snapped. It ended with Eric’s head in the gas oven, left with the threat that if he hit his wife again, he’d be suffocated next time. Big Sandy walked away pleased with his night’s work. He despised wife-beaters. Wished he could kick the shit out of scum like Eric every night.

A rabbi associate of the Bush’s in
east London was having a hard time. Local thugs had been making sporadic attacks on his synagogue, trying to drive him out. Not the Bush’s turf but he agreed to help, keen to foster closer links with civic leaders now that he was going legit. Big Sandy was dispatched to the synagogue, long nights waiting within, dark and lonely, Big Sandy resting in the shadows, brooding, patient. He was Catholic but many of the Bush’s men were Jewish and Big Sandy was accustomed to synagogues, so he wasn’t fazed by the job.

Sixth night
— stones came flying through the windows. Laughter outside. Big Sandy jogged to the door, burst out swinging a thick length of chain. Took three of them down before they knew what was happening. Two more put up a brief, ill-advised fight. The last guy fled. One of the downed anti-Semites was unconscious, skull ripped open by the chain. Two of the others were badly injured, screaming. He focused on the final pair, grabbed them by their collars, dragged them inside, stood over them, chain held taut between his giant hands. “Give me your wallets.” They didn’t react. Big Sandy’s chain snapped and found flesh. Screams, then wallets were hastily dug out of pockets. Big Sandy studied names and addresses. “If this place is targeted again, I’ll come find you.”

“Fucking kike,
” one of the men wept. Big Sandy grabbed him and stuck four fingers in the man’s mouth. The bigot gagged. Big Sandy jerked hard, left then right. The man’s cheeks ripped like cloth. Big Sandy released him and left him to moan and bleed. The other man was ashen.

“This synagogue’s protected,” Big Sandy said evenly. “Stay away.”
He ushered them out, kicking their legs and arses, licking their backs with his chain, set them loose to gather their colleagues and stumble to freedom. Mopped up the blood. Phoned a glazier, left a message for him to come in the morning to repair the windows. Phoned the rabbi, said he’d sorted things out, to contact them again if there were any comebacks. The rabbi thanked him and said he’d pray for him. Big Sandy didn’t reply. Got a cab home, staring out the window at the sleeping city, wondering if helping a rabbi in some way compromised his standing as a Catholic.

The day afte
r. Big Sandy woken by the phone, the Bush calling to thank him. Big Sandy yawned and made little of it. The Bush asked if he had a suit. “Yeah…” he said cautiously. “My niece, Shula Schimmel, is still here. Supposed to return to Switzerland last week but we can’t get rid of her. I’ve been keeping tabs but it ain’t easy, an eighteen year old girl in London with a taste for parties and clubs…”

Big Sandy
remembered the beautiful young woman. That had been the night when he’d read to the boy after killing Tommy Utah. As he’d figured, the boy hadn’t been able to tell the police anything about the man who’d killed his father, so life rolled on as normal for Big Sandy. But it wasn’t a night he’d forget.

“You want me to look after your niece
?” Big Sandy grunted.

“I’ve had younger men
on the job but they keep going gooey-eyed and losing her. You probably won’t have any more luck, but if you can trail her around for a few nights, try and make sure she doesn’t get into trouble…”

“Sure. She’s staying at your place?”

“No more she’s not,” the Bush sighed. “She’s in a hotel near Gloucester Road — the Harrington Hall. Alice said the girl needs her independence and who am I to argue?”

“Does she expect me?”

“She expects some handsome, stylish guardian angel like the others I’ve sent to watch over her. Doesn’t know I’m sending a yeti this time.”

Big Sandy grinned. “Give me her room number and a list of the places you want me to steer her clear of. I’ll do what I can
.”

Shula
was decidedly unimpressed when Big Sandy turned up. She stared at his craggy face, the dusty suit, his untidy hair. “If uncle Dave thinks I’m stepping out with you, he’s crazy,” she snorted, dashing upstairs to make an emergency call. She returned ten minutes later, sullen. “He said I go with you or stay indoors.”

“Be a lot easier on both of us if you stayed in,” Big Sandy
noted.

She tried withering him with a look, saw
that it was wasted, and smiled. “Come on then, we might as well make the most of it. Try not to look too conspicuous.”

In the car she asked for his name. “Big Sandy.”

“I mean your real name,” she laughed, tugging at the tight material of her dress, breathing heavily to direct her small but effective breasts at him, eyes twinkling.

“Just call me Big Sandy.” Staring neutrally at her, not looking away, not ogling her either.

“What’s your surname?” she pressed.

“Murphy.”

“I’ll call you Mr Murphy then.”

Big Sandy shrugged and the cab rocked gently. “If you want.”

First port of call was Notting Hill, trendy pubs, Shula connecting with lots of new friends, kissing cheeks, introducing a few of them to Big Sandy, who hovered in the background, quiet, polite, teetotal, alert. Some of her friends (a few egged on by Shula) asked Big Sandy what he did for a living, where he got his hair cut, was he a gangster, who was his tailor. Big Sandy ignored them. Spoilt rich kids or students, their ignorance understandable and acceptable. The only time he reacted was when a girl asked if he could hook her up with a dealer. Big Sandy frowned and his grimace sent her scurrying from the pub, so flustered that she forgot her purse and had to return, giggling shrilly, to fetch it.

Shula
was mildly upset that Big Sandy didn’t feel belittled. “They’re laughing at you,” she told him as they cabbed between pubs.

“I don’t mind.”

“You could stop them. You’re big, tough. You could make them respect you.”

Big Sandy shook his head. “No,
they’d only fear me and laugh about me behind my back instead of to my face.”

“Doesn’t it bother you?” she asked.

Big Sandy smiled. “They’re kids. Let them laugh.”

The
y hit a party up the West End. Shula lost Big Sandy in the crush and he had to circle, searching for her. Spotted her on a couch with Lawrence Drake, the pair talking softly, Drake’s fingers drumming Shula’s knee. Big Sandy paused — break them up and make a scene, or stand back and keep watch? He chose to stand back. Nothing serious went down – Drake leant forward a few times, trying to kiss the teenager, only for Shula to laugh and peel away – but Big Sandy didn’t like it.

“He’s too old for you,” he
told her as Shula relaxed in a cab on their way to a club.

“Hmm?” Eyes opening drows
ily.

“Drake’s bad news,
a borderline paedophile. Your uncle won’t approve.”

“Larry’s fun,” Shula yawned. “I know he’s a lech — that’s what makes him so amusing. I know how to play him. I won’t let him
deflower
me.” She squinted. “Will you tell uncle Dave about him?” Big Sandy nodded. “Nobody likes a snitch,” Shula sniffed.

“I’m paid to observe and report,” Big Sandy retorted coolly.

“You don’t have to report everything.”

“No,
only what’s relevant. Larry Drake’s relevant.” A pause. “But I’ll tell him I didn’t see anything untoward, you know how to handle yourself, and he probably doesn’t need to worry.”

Shula smiled. “You’re a sweetheart.”
She leant across and pecked Big Sandy’s nose, then half pulled away, eyes hooded, inviting a response.

Big Sandy laughed. “
You’re a sweet thing, aren’t you?”

Shula pouted. “That was meant to
be provocative, not daughterly.”

Big Sandy bent and kissed her nose. “That’s what made it so sweet.”

Shula smiled, thinking,
He could have bitten off my nose!
Feeling like a girl in league with a wild bear. She snuggled up to him, but not teasing him now, hugging him like an uncle. Big Sandy saw this and reciprocated her hug, but gently, careful not to crush the tender girl.

Clint had started shadowing Shula Schimmel. Nothing stalker-level, just trailing her around at night sometimes, watching her mingle, hovering at the edges of her world, dreaming about one day being part of it.

Dropping by cousin Dave’s house one day not long after the party – unusual but not the first time he’d visited – he managed to get chatting to her for a few minutes and casually asked if she was enjoying London, how often she went out, the places she frequented.

It was easy to keep tabs on her after that, and he had a legitimate reason to pop up in the pubs and clubs, dealing as he went. Occasionally she noticed him and said hello – that always put a big smile on his face – but more often than not he hid in the shadows, watching in silence from across a busy room. It was easier to believe in the dream if he viewed her from afar.

There were all sorts of things that he wanted to say to her, and he would spend his down time rehearsing, running lines through his head, sometimes practising out loud. But whenever their paths crossed and she smiled at him and instigated a short conversation, he would feeze, mutter something inane, fail to make the most of the moment.

As besotted as he was, he didn’t let that distract him from business. This was a good time of year, students returning to college, loaded at the start of a new term, desperate to get high, lots of them not sure how much they should be paying, easy to con. Although Clint cut some nice deals while trailing Shula, he didn’t want to do too much business in the places she frequented, in case the Bush heard — he might not want his wife’s niece to be involved, even in passing, with anything major.

So Clint peeled himself away and did the campus rounds, hitting student pubs, smartly dressed and worldwise compared to the fresh-faced teenagers, feeling much older, like a real gangster. Making good deals wherever he went, E’s selling themselves, coke and grass trickling through his fingers. Not much of a demand for heroin, but he was able to offload that to his regular hardcore junkies. He was making a lot of money and investing most of it in cousin Dave’s various operations — good business bets, high returns, and the Bush approved of his men sticking their cash back into the organisation.

Clint also started to spend more time with Tony Phials. The chemist was
crazy, but smart, funny and friendly. Eager to worm his way into the heart of his cousin’s empire, to make more money and get closer to Shula, Clint had taken the doc up on his offer to hang out and swung by one slow evening in the middle of September, expecting to be turned away. To his surprise, Phials was delighted to see him, took Clint to the games room, treated him to all the drinks he cared for. They shot pool, smoked some grass (Clint normally didn’t indulge but the prof refused to smoke alone), bullshitted. Clint returned a few days later and had been coming two or three times a week since.

They watched movies together on Phials’ 55 inch widescreen TV. The doc had seen more films than Clint ever would. “I’m an insomniac,” he explained. “If I get three hours sleep it’s
cause to celebrate. I grew up in a small town, nothing to do in the dead of night but sit up and watch movies on cable.”

Like Clint, Phials loved gangster movies, though his favourites were the
black-and-white flicks of the thirties and forties. Clint didn’t know much about films before
The Godfather
. Phials introduced him to the originals, a new slate of actors — Bogart, Cagney, George Raft, Paul Muni, Edward G Robinson. Clint not as keen on the oldies as the doc was, but he enjoyed them.

He started mentioning the movies when he met with Shula, telling her about them. She was interested and he bought a few DVDs for her, which she watched and liked. She was starting to spend more time on him now when their paths crossed. Most of the talk was confined to the old films they were watching, but that didn’t bother Clint. He was delighted just to have an in. He didn’t care what they discussed just as long as he got to share those personal moments with her.