Trust (14 page)

That was when it clicked. Something in the way he stood there before me. Something in his eyes. He wanted me to believe that he was being open with me now, straight.

He wanted me to trust him.

But there was something he’d said earlier. Something that only now fell into place in my head.

“How did you know?” I said.

He didn’t understand. Shrugged. Even managed to look frustrated at me going off on a tangent.

“Those joyriders,” I went on. “The ones who killed my parents. You said they were in a
flashy
car. Said they’d been speeding and jumped a red light. How did you know all that?”

He didn’t bat an eyelid. Didn’t hesitate. He held my look and said, “You told me. What’s up, Jess?” He reached out to put a hand on my arm, but I stepped back.

He was good. The look on his face, the careful use of my name to draw me in, the move to touch and reassure me.

He did that whole sincerity thing well.

He should have been an actor.

Or a crook.

“I didn’t. You mentioned those details, but I never told you.”

“Jess.”

“So how much more do you know about what happened?”

His face hardened, a setting of the features. He knew he couldn’t wriggle out of this one. “Jess, you need to stop jumping to conclusions, darling. That kind of thing gets dangerous.”

Threats now.

“It was a hit, wasn’t it?” I said.

I couldn’t believe the words as they came tumbling out, but I couldn’t believe anything else, either.

“Did they give evidence against your father or something? Was it some kind of revenge thing? You lot...” Reuben had said it: the way the hierarchy worked. “You control the gangs on the housing estates, don’t you? You could easily have found someone who likes nothing better than to nick a ‘
flashy
’ motor and drive it fast.” I drew the quotation marks in the air as I said the word
flashy
.

Right then, perhaps the worst thing of all was not that I’d been so blind as to not see this earlier, but that he stood there before me now and didn’t deny it.

Didn’t say a thing.

Just stood there, studying me with narrowed dark eyes, a muscle tensing and relaxing repeatedly in his jaw.

Then, finally, he said, “Like I say. You should go. Get out of here before you get dragged too deep into something you don’t understand.” A tight smile, then, before he added, “You know what I mean, darling?”

Dean stood there, watching her as she walked away. A part of him hoped she was walking away for good.

She might be safe, then.

He felt the muscle twitching in his jaw. Felt the ache of his teeth clamped too tight together. The throbbing at his temple.

Couldn’t trust himself to move even a fraction until she was out of sight, for he knew he would go after her.

And then she was gone. Through a gap in the concrete buildings, around a corner.

He closed his eyes, saw her walking away again. The skinny jeans, the scuffed old leather jacket. The swing and sway to her walk. Her dyed blond hair whipping in the breeze from the Thames.

Opened them, and she was still gone.

He felt like he’d been struck far harder than he’d ever been hit in a boxing ring. And he knew the wounds would take far longer to heal.

It had been inevitable that she would join the dots. Even if he hadn’t made that slip about the red lights. She
had
told him that, hadn’t she? To be honest, he couldn’t remember. Maybe she hadn’t. Maybe it had been his subconscious tripping him up, making sure she would have something to latch onto, and that he would have an excuse to turn her away.

He couldn’t be having this.

Not any time – the way she got inside his head, occupied his thoughts, governed his responses. She changed who he was, and that scared him. He couldn’t afford to feel vulnerable.

Especially not
now
. Not with everything coming to a head with the Russians. And not knowing where Reuben and his boys stood – that one always had flowed with the tide, regardless of where his loyalties really should lie.

She needed to be out of here for her own safety.

And if that meant believing the worst in him, then so be it.

Let her think what she wanted, if that got her away from here.

Dean Bailey didn’t care.

He really didn’t.

§

Time to sort out some business.

“Hey, Owen. Where you at? Need to talk, okay?”

The breeze coming off the river made it hard to hear his brother’s response on the phone, but he just about heard: “Hey, Deano. Cool beans. I’m at the Bluebell, okay? You coming over?”

Dean made another call, and a few minutes later one of Ronnie’s boys picked him up in a black Lexus from outside Island Gardens DLR station. As they drove up through the Isle of Dogs, he tried very hard not to think of Jess. That final image of her disappearing through a gap in the buildings, hands tucked into jacket pockets, head dipped slightly down.

Tried not to think of her last night. Her touch. Her responses. The solidity of her form, knees drawn up, asleep beside him.

The trust, to give yourself up like that, to sleep in another’s presence. It was an alien thing to him. He’d lain awake for ages, aware of her, before finally drifting.

It didn’t matter. He didn’t need the sleep. Never had.

Was waking up with her what really did it? Waking up and she was there and it seemed natural: the intimacy, the faith in another, the ease of it all.

The Bluebell was a gym in Canning Town. A nondescript building with a row of shops at the front, a snooker hall above the shops, and a boxing gym out back.

The Lexus deposited Dean in the yard by the back door, and he waved it away. This wasn’t the most prepossessing entrance, but it was convenient for the car, and it often made sense for Dean to avoid making a big entrance.

Tall metal bins on wheels lined up against the wall, and the place smelled of decaying food and piss. Wastepaper blew on the breeze, caught up against the bins and walls like fallen leaves.

A used condom lay at his feet, and he wondered at the scene the night before. What kind of romantic coupling had taken place in
these
surroundings?

Some people had no class.

He went inside, the door with a metal grille over the outside opening on to a narrow passageway, the club’s main office off to one side.

He dipped his head through the doorway, exchanged greetings with a girl he vaguely recognized who was chewing gum and tapping away at a computer.

Headed on through to the gym.

Music thumped, appropriately, from speakers mounted high on the walls. An Asian kid drove a rapid succession of jabs into a heavy punch-bag, while nearby an older guy worked a speed bag. In front of a line of mirrored walls other fighters shadow-boxed, jumped rope and pumped iron and generally did their best to look intimidating. Up in the ring a big black guy was stalking his trainer round the ropes, driving heavy punches into the smaller man’s focus mitt.

The mixed martial arts cage along at the far end was empty, the sight of it bringing back memories of Lee’s ill-fated fight the night before.

This wasn’t the biggest gym the Bailey Boys owned, but it was the one that held a special place for all of them. They’d come here as kids. Dean remembered his father up there in the ring, sparring with Mitsos the Greek or the old Scot they’d only ever known as Frankie Knuckles, or even with Gramps. He remembered learning to punch the bags – they’d seemed enormous!

Now, he paused, and reflexively raised a hand to his face, touched his nose. He’d sparred here, too, when he was younger. More than sparring, sometimes.

Reuben had done this: the break in his nose that had set not quite straight again.

Reuben had been about sixteen, and Dean only thirteen, although there was little between them in size or strength. They’d been regular training and sparring partners, and then one time, egged on by their family and mates, it had developed a bit of an edge. Their fathers had been there at the ringside, jostling and elbowing each other, laughing a lot as what had started as a regular sparring bout had become more competitive.

Money had changed hands between the two men. Dean had seen that, and it had geed him up. If his old man was putting money on the fight then he must have faith in his son.

In that moment, Reuben had spotted the slight lapse in Dean’s concentration. A gloved fist swung in from the corner of Dean’s vision and landed full on the nose with a sickening crunch.

In his memory, Dean remembered his feet lifting off the floor and feeling himself flying back through the air, cartoon-style. In reality, he knew it would have been less comical, more brutal. A haymaker that landed him flat on his back, his face a bloody mess.

He remembered the roar of the crowd, although it could only have been the two fathers and a handful of friends. There was another roar in his ears, too, as if crashing waves were trapped inside his skull.

He’d forced himself to sit up, gathered himself, stood and grabbed a white towel to wipe away the blood. Then he took a deep breath and resumed his fighting stance, southpaw to Reuben’s ungainly orthodox.

He still remembered the look in Reuben’s eyes just then. The older boy had known straight away he’d lost this fight, even though for a few seconds he thought he’d already won.

He’d known from a single glance there would be no stopping Dean, and he’d been right. Dean had fought like an animal, his fists a blur, and the older boy had crumpled to the canvas in no time.

That the two had remained solid friends was, to many, a remarkable thing. But they were both fighters. They saw it in each other, and there had always been a mutual respect.

Since then, they’d always known where they stood with each other, even if they didn’t necessarily like it.

They’d never sparred again, though.

This was around the time everything had blown up with the Russians. Around the time Dean’s old man had been committing the acts that had seen him banged up for life. It hadn’t been pretty, and Dean had been sheltered from a lot of it at the time. He hadn’t been aware of the killings, the punishments, the displays of extreme violence carefully designed to persuade the new arrivals to back off. That had only really come out in the trial, and as Owen had eased him into the family business a few years later.

Say what you like about Eddie Bailey Junior, but his actions had bought the boys another ten years at least before the Russians started to close in again.

It was a lesson the Bailey Boys had learned well.

Now, Dean put his hand to his face again, as he took in the familiar sights, sounds and smells of this place. The
feel
of it.

That broken nose, it carried far more significance to him than if it had just been the result of a childhood fight. It was part of who he was. Part of those early years, of what had made him the man he was.

That slight deviation of the septum would always remind him of that period, and he carried it proudly.

§

“Fancy getting back in the ring, Deano?”

He turned and Owen was standing there in a doorway that led through to the changing rooms. He had his training kit on, a pair of boxing gloves dangling from one hand. From the dark patches of sweat on his t-shirt, he’d already been working out, and must have re-emerged when he got the heads-up that his brother had arrived.

Dean shook his head. “I look after myself,” he said. “But I don’t think there’s any need for me to get back up there. I’ve done all that. Leave that kind of thing to youngsters like Lee, I reckon.”

“How is the boy? I hear you went to see him this morning.”

“Could of gone yourself, Ow.”

“Not my thing, is it? I never was the hands-on one like you two, was I? Doesn’t mean I don’t care. You know that, bro’. I take my responsibilities from the old man.” He spread his arms then, smiled, and said, “Well come here, you little fucker.”

Dean walked across to him, stepped into those arms and hugged just as hard as he got. His brother was damp, and smelled of sweat, but none of that mattered. It was good to be reminded what was important.

“Can’t remember the last time I saw you down here in a pair of gloves,” said Dean, stepping back.

Owen shrugged, tipping his head from side to side briefly. “Been too long, hasn’t it? I’m getting a bit old for all this, aren’t I? It’s been a while.” He patted his belly then, and laughed. “Maybe it’s Lucy. Bird like that makes a bloke feel old, far too easily.”

“Tell me about it.”

“And maybe it’s our kid,” Owen went on. “Seeing him up there last night. Brought it all back. Made me feel guilty, know what I mean?”

“Lee’s doing okay,” said Dean. “Bunch of stitches, a few bruises, cracked rib. He had a spot of concussion after the fight, but Doc Malik reckons he’s okay. He’s keeping an eye on him, but I reckon Lee’ll be back on the streets before we know it. Probably by the end of today.”

Owen was nodding. “About what you’d expect, really.”

“I thought it all went quite well, actually,” said Dean. “Lee pasted in the ring. Me slapped about by Reuben’s boys in front of the Russians. You losing face in front of everyone who matters. The Bailey Boys humiliated all round.”

“That’s right,” said Owen. “You should of seen Putin’s face. They really do think they own this town now.”

That smile of Dean’s – the one that irresistibly lit up his features – stole over his face now.

“They’re not going to know what’s hit them, are they, bro’?”

Laughing, the two brothers moved in for another sweaty embrace, slapping each other’s backs.

“We going to do this?”

“We’re going to do this.”

The bastard told me to go, and so I went.

I’m not a one to do as I’m told. It’s not in my nature.

My normal response is to do exactly the opposite.

But one thing I’d learned from Dean Bailey was that you need to know when to walk away.

So I walked, back the way we’d come, the path taking me away from the river and between a couple of apartment blocks.