Mickey Take: When a debt goes bad... Read online

  MICKEY TAKE

  STEVEN HAYWARD

  Published by Steven Hayward

  Copyright © 2014 Steven Hayward

  All Rights Reserved

  For Helen, the love of my life

  – x –

  And for my dad, Peter,

  the rock on which my family is built.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  December 1983 Monday, 5th

  1.

  September 2009 Wednesday, 16th

  Hot Shot

  Bleak House

  Bunny Girl

  Another Mother

  2.

  Double Income…

  Calling In

  Wednesday, 9th

  That Night

  3.

  Thursday, 17th

  Unexpected Withdrawal

  Feeding Disorder

  4.

  Fixed Odds

  Cheeky Boy

  Warm Front

  Model Student

  Kitten Heels

  Eye Shine

  5.

  Friday, 18th

  Still Buzzing

  Neighbourhood Watch

  Foxtrot Uniform

  Night Flight

  Teenage Kicks

  6.

  Saturday, 19th

  Close Up

  Retail Rewards

  Developing Solution

  Bus Pass

  Distress Call

  7.

  Sunday, 20th

  Sister Act

  Long Shot

  Totally Blank

  Cuckoo’s Nest

  Night Vision

  8.

  Monday, 21st

  Over Exposed

  Millennium Bug

  Cold Comfort

  Killing Time

  9.

  Tuesday, 22nd

  Déjà Vu

  Paper Cuts

  Come Again

  10.

  Long Division

  Keeping Mum

  Park Life

  Dedicated Follower

  Disturbing Sleep

  11.

  Wednesday, 23rd

  Fair Cop

  Bella Donna

  12.

  Thursday, 24th

  Hard Case

  Dirty Cash

  13.

  Point Blank

  Near Miss

  Hanging Out

  Relatively Speaking

  Psycho Analysis

  Clean Sweep

  14.

  Friday, 25th

  Buck Shot

  Mamma Mia!

  Wiggle Room

  Mug Full

  Return Address

  15.

  Saturday, 26th

  Stark Choice

  Scenting Danger

  Red Rag

  Just Desserts

  Cold Calling

  16.

  Sunday, 27th

  Overtaking Time

  17.

  Monday, 28th

  Criminal Fraternity

  Mea Culpa

  Work Shop

  18.

  Tuesday, 29th

  Miss Take

  False Dawn

  Red Sauce

  Present Arms

  Domestic Bliss

  19.

  Body Blow

  Rough Justice

  Softly Softly

  20.

  Untold Suffering

  Leaving Alone

  Dead Ahead

  EPILOGUE

  Late October

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PROLOGUE

  December 1983

  Monday, 5th

  Fog hangs in garlands from the sparse trees along an unlit road. The night is frozen, bone-deep. It’s no longer silent. Neither is it holy. Branches weep from the shudder of impact. Screams of agony splinter the air. And hot metal pings. Two cars have recoiled, face off, astride white lines. Festooned with shards of silver and gold, the tarmac glistens like Christmas.

  Minutes later, beyond the next bend, another motor stops abruptly. Seeing the blue flickering trees ahead, the driver’s brain immediately spikes. He kills the engine and snuffs the headlights and, once out of the car, checks all the locks before disappearing into the shadows.

  At the turn in the road, his first glimpse of the scene is the rear of a white hatchback. Viewed from behind, it appears unscathed, its street cred emblazoned in black letters across the tail. The other car facing him is crushed beyond recognition. Its red bonnet curls upwards like a tin lid. Ahead, at the foot of a tree, a heap of limbs and clothing lay deathly still. On seeing the traffic cop, the watcher instinctively drops to the ground. He breathes deeply as his knees soak up the muddy verge, until the piercing screech of metal clears his head.

  Failing noisily to prise open its door, the cop speaks softly to the driver of the red car. With no more than a sideways glance at the woman on the ground, whose living eyes wouldn’t stare that way, he hurries on, past the steaming bonnet of the hatchback, ignoring the gaping hole in its windscreen. The exchange with this driver is more animated; two deep voices with an edge of familiarity talk at length. Eventually, the cop crosses the road to check on the body.

  The watcher remains concealed, aroused by the carnage.

  It’s a futile gesture when the plod holds his fingers to the woman’s neck. Even the awkward rearranging of her coat to cover her exposed flesh is made to look dignified. But when he deliberately pulls on his gloves, lifts the limp calf and roughly removes her shoe, the unseen witness sneers.

  He’s seen it all before. Where were the bizzies when a fleeting uncle broke his arm in a drug-fuelled rage? Or when his ma smacked his head against the wall to back up the story of how the clumsy five year old had fallen downstairs? Where were they a few years later, when he was forced to beg for her on East End streets, so she could score her next fix? They just moved him along. And the one time he went to them and opened up, they ignored his cry for help.

  Nothing surprises him now. Not when the pig walks back to the white car, opens the nearside door and drags the screaming driver across to the passenger seat. Nor when he goes back to the driver’s door and hurls the woman’s shoe into the foot well. Not even when he returns to the body, removes her blood-soaked scarf, wraps it around his baton and slams it through the shattered windscreen, widening the hole. When the silk snags on the broken glass, he leaves it hanging there like ribbon.

  Only then does the scum return to his patrol car and call for paramedics. Only then, with all the justification he will ever need, does the watcher return to his car to await the blare of sirens that will cover his retreat. And only then does his mind return to the task of dumping the body parts bagged up in his boot.

  1.

  September 2009

  Wednesday, 16th

  No taller than five-four, she shoulders her way through the pack with the wiry strength of a fly-half. As a gap opens she falls forward, unsteady in three-inch heels, leaning against my arm with one hand, whilst deftly cradling two glasses in the other. I move awkwardly to make way, but rather than try to pass she smiles and says, ‘I’ve been watching you.’

  She asks my name; hers doesn’t register. After the evening I’ve had, you wouldn’t blame me. But I must look a complete imbecile when all I can say is, ‘Uh?’

  ‘Grace,’ she repeats, and this time the adolescent in my head whispers, Amazing.

  She really is. An innocent, heart-shaped beauty with big, docile eyes set deep into sculpted cheekbones, reminding me of those sultry caricatures, popular in the 60s. The only outward signs of the gregarious nerve that allows her to approach a comp
lete stranger in a crowded bar are the upturned corners of her smile. The way they exaggerate the mischievous dimples at either side of her mouth only competes for my attention with the sparkle in her eyes.

  ‘Macallan, isn’t it?’ she says, offering me one of the drinks. ‘I prefer something a bit peatier, like a Lagavulin or Laphroaig, but this’ll do for now.’

  She downs the whisky with only a slight grimace, and continues to press the second glass into my hand, before looking at me with a fixed grin, probably wondering if there’s anyone in. Hello? I pull my eyes away from hers, zooming out for a wider view. She’s obviously not long out of the weather because her shoulder-length blonde hair hangs down in shaggy, damp twists like she just stepped out of the shower.

  Okay, I’m going to hold that thought…

  Hot Shot

  My name is Michael Field. If you thought I was going to say: My name is Michael Caine, you’d be wrong. The only thing we’ve got in common, some say, is he talks like me. I suppose you’ll be the judge of that. Anyway, call me Mickey.

  I’m here in my local. About nine miles east of a place I’ve affectionately dubbed Bleak House. I’ve just covered twice that distance getting back. You’ve seen the movie with the guy, freaked out and running, flushed into the underground labyrinth. That was me. Going north on the Central line… over the loop to Hainault… above ground, through busy streets… another tube, heading south… first bus, going anywhere… District Line, eastbound… one beyond my usual stop… off at Hornchurch… walk a random circuit back… before slipping unnoticed into the sanctuary of a familiar watering hole…

  After that, the first single malt wasn’t likely to touch the sides. Was I followed by a thug wielding a torch? I don’t think so. Did I see any psychos along the way? Well, it was London. But no, none of them were in hot pursuit, so I thought I was in the clear.

  Unusually for a Wednesday, The Feathers was heaving when I squeezed my way to the bar, avoiding any eye contact. The barmaid was another new face out of the usual mould – chirpy, young Antipodean with a mercenary smile, razor-sharp wit and a mood that could turn on a sixpence. She was being chatted up by some lads along the bar and didn’t given me a second glance as I twitched down the first glass and immediately called for another.

  The second scotch had been sitting on the bar for a couple of minutes. My heart had stopped pounding, and I was feeling confident I could pick up the glass without spilling any this time. As I did, a hand rested on my shoulder and I lurched forward with a jolt in horror at the thought of a guy with a Maglite grabbing my arm and hauling me from the pub. It was just some reveller getting carried away and tripping towards the bar. I called him an arsehole under my breath while licking whisky off my hand. I could tell he was too drunk to notice me and too arrogant to give a shit. He was wearing a dark suit and fancy cuffs, just like I used to. The Feathers is always full of drunken City tossers on an England match night. They slowly regress into unlikely hooligans – voices become more raucous, language more colourful – as they direct all that suppressed male aggression at the big screen.

  Having shifted position to let him in, I feigned nonchalance and cast my eyes around the pub. The bar in The Feathers is like a big horseshoe, with an island in the middle that the staff can circle around. Evenly spaced around it are elaborately-carved pillars, supporting glass shelves above, framing my view through to the other side. That’s when I saw her, an absolute babe, leaning against the bar directly opposite and staring straight back at me.

  Without a TV screen, that side of the pub didn’t seem so busy, and I thought she might have been on her own. On one side of her was a space that was soon taken by an old guy, waving a fiver vigorously towards the landlord who was covering that part of the bar preferred by his football-indifferent regulars. On the other side was a middle-aged couple in conversation, their backs to my apparent admirer. She was being served. The landlord put down two tumblers. I was relieved, though slightly disappointed, because that surely meant her boyfriend was at one of the far tables. I looked away, mildly bemused by the intensity of the moment.

  I tried to keep my cool but I could still feel her eyes on the back of my head. I had to look back. By then the barmaid was standing right in front of me, setting down two pints of lager for City Boy. When she moved back to the Guinness pump to fill the final third of a glass, my view across the pub returned and I was looking at a gap at the bar next to the old guy talking to the landlord. Game over. I downed the second scotch without a further spillage and contemplated taking the back roads home.

  While the last couple of hours had felt like a nightmare, I knew I wasn’t dreaming. But what occurred next surely only happened to guys like me in a fantasy world of our own making, in the depths of a beer-induced coma. I turned to make my exit and thought about nudging The Suit’s drinking arm as I pushed my way to the door, when the gap I was trying to open up was suddenly blocked by the girl from across the bar, squeezing her way towards me.

  Alarm bells started ringing in my head and this evening’s main event flashed through my mind…

  Bleak House

  When you fall on hard times, there’s no knowing how low you’ll stoop. But believe me, I wasn’t doing it for fun. And although I knew what I was looking for, I didn’t really understand why it was so important to Herb, nor why it was worth the four figures he was paying me for this little bit of breaking and entering.

  The thought crossed my mind: if the place looked like it had been deserted for years, was it still technically a crime to break in? Either way, it wasn’t like it was the first I’d ever committed. It might have been fair to say that everyone had done the odd ton down the motorway or had a few too many sherbets and didn’t want to leave the car at the station overnight. But that’s not what I was thinking. My previous experience was somewhat more serious than antisocial behaviour behind the wheel. That was a long time ago, and then I had some help when it came to tidying up the loose ends. Suffice to say, nothing ever came of it and I was able to get on with my life.

  I’d always fancied myself as a lucky boy, a charmer, what they used to call a Likely Lad. Even so, I couldn’t help feeling there was something very iffy about this job. I was about to commit only my second attempt at burglary and, much like twenty years ago, I didn’t really know what I was letting myself in for.

  Undeterred, I slid effortlessly through an open sash window onto a squalid, threadbare carpet. At one time it might have had a swirling pattern, but more of its mesh backing was showing than any of the abstract scrolls of its former glory. It wasn’t quite as dark in this room as it had been out the back. While a single streetlight shone in from the front, my eyes still found it hard to adjust. Outside, its intrusive glare had been subdued by the irregular shadow of a large oak that conveniently obscured the side path from the road, allowing me a discreet way around from the garden.

  If I said the light was casting an amber wash around the room, glowing and fading rhythmically like a mood lamp as the tree swayed gently in the breeze, I’d be having you on because I was completely unmoved by the ambience of the place. If I went on to say the sepia hue made the room seem welcoming and benign, you’d know I’d lost the plot. But I did sense a strange contradiction in the apparent tranquillity. That feeling I’d had – that something wasn’t right about this, not just morally and legally – it hadn’t gone away. This was too easy. The window on the side of the house hadn’t even been latched for Christ’s sake; not exactly breaking and entering when all I had to do was lift the bloody window and step in. I couldn’t believe my luck. Although once I was in and looking around that dingy little room, any optimism I had began to dampen.

  I couldn’t make out the colour of the floor or the fringed, partly-shredded bedspread, thrown untidily across the single bed that ran the entire length of the wall. The bed was basic, reminding me of a prison bunk: metal-framed, no headboard, a thin striped mattress, visible where the cover didn’t obscure it, no pillow, or any other sign of co
mfort. Apart from that, a frayed wicker chair in the corner by the window and an ancient wardrobe opposite, the room was empty. It was the wardrobe that held my attention, one of its doors gaped and the remains of an inner mirror were strewn in flickering shards across the floor.

  Tiny slivers of glass crackled underfoot and the carpet clung to my shoes like Velcro as I stepped out into the hallway. To my right, I could only just see the bottom step of a staircase that ascended off to the side. I shuddered, barely suppressing the memory of a stranger looking down at me from the landing. That was another staircase, in another house, long ago. Beyond this one was the front door, its rippled glass glimmering orange from the neon outside. Across the hall were two more rooms. The door to the front room was shut. The other was open, and I could see a linoleum floor, streaked with what looked like oil.

  The floorboards creaked in protest as I took a step towards the open door. The edge of a rolled-top bath, the kind that would cost a fortune to buy, came into view. Above, I could only discern the outline of a small frosted window, presumably facing out onto the wall of the neighbouring house, because it added no illumination to the room. Without opening the door wider, I could only see one side of the bath; its once pristine white enamel looked grey and dull, seemingly smeared with the same greasy muck as the floor.

  I tried to ignore the flashback in my head, reminding me what pools of blood looked like in the dark. Too late. What little I could see was already combining with vivid memories. My confidence was ebbing away on a wave of revulsion at the disgusting state of this place. Nausea was creeping up on me as the smell registered with my senses. A dank, suffocating odour of decay permeated the walls and rose from the floor in an acrid vapour; a stomach-churning cocktail of stagnant piss, sour milk and vomit.

  And there was something else: a sweet, pungent edge with the tang of rotting meat and the bitterness of cold metal.

  Moments before, easing through the window, my mood was bright. This was easy. No problem. Grab it and go. Now I felt sick. What the hell had I walked into? I was frozen, in the middle of the hallway, unable to move.