Howard Linskey - The Dead

Palmer noticed a machine gun propped up against a wall, within easy reach, and two shotguns. Two of the brothers had handguns in shoulder holsters they didn’t even bother to cover with jackets. These guys were beyond blatant, but they were protected, so maybe they thought they could leave shotguns and machine guns lying around without worrying about a raid.

‘Skorpion vz61,’ was the first thing Palmer said to them.

‘What?’ asked the brother who looked like the oldest. Palmer took this to be Dusan.

‘Haven’t seen too many Skorpions,’ added Palmer indicating the machine gun, ‘not lately. Czech-made but there’s not been a new one in thirty years. Where’d you get it?’

‘Took it from the dead hand of a Muslim bastard in Kosovo,’ said Dusan proudly, ‘he didn’t need it any more. It still works,’ he assured Palmer.

‘I’ll bet it does, they were built to last. Eight hundred and fifty rounds a minute.’

The brother who appeared to be the youngest reacted angrily, ‘You are not here to talk about guns.’

‘No,’ confirmed Palmer, ‘I’m here to talk about you leaving Edinburgh,’ he said it quietly, ‘and the terms we will agree with you for your return to Belgrade.’

The middle brother, Sreten, spoke then as if he too was determined to say his piece, ‘You don’t make terms with us. We make terms with you and the terms are nothing. That’s how much we will give you to leave the city to us. We are already driving your men out.’

‘And we’ve given some of your boys a battering too,’ countered Palmer, ‘there’s no end to the number we can put on the streets. Can you say the same?’

Dusan Stevic had been listening calmly, but he intervened then. ‘I could summon a hundred men tomorrow and you should know they would arrive with no problems from your police.’

‘Having bent law in this country isn’t always enough. You can’t buy everyone. Believe me, it’s been tried. Even in your own home you failed to do that.’

‘What is it you are offering for us to leave this city? I ask out of mere curiosity.’

‘Half a million Euros,’ Palmer let the amount sink in, ‘plus whatever you’ve made here already. That’s a hefty profit for a few weeks in a foreign land.’

‘Then what?’

‘You set up somewhere else; Marseille, Hamburg, Riga?’ Palmer shrugged as if it was of no consequence to him.

‘And if we don’t leave?’

‘Then you will never leave.’

The youngest brother, Marko, took exception to that and pulled his gun. Dusan barked something at him in Serbian and Marko’s face flushed, then he put the gun away reluctantly.

‘You come here to threaten us, it makes Marko angry. If it was his choice we would take you from here and cut you to pieces for that insult.’

‘Perhaps all three of you could do that,’ admitted Palmer, ‘but not all of you would live.’

Dusan’s eyes widened in disbelief, ‘Fucking balls on this guy,’ and he laughed without amusement. ‘I’ll tell you what will happen. I will let you keep those balls and you leave here. Return to Blake, yes I know who your boss is, and tell him what I smell when I hear his offer; weakness and fear. If he thought he could make us leave he would try, but no, he wants to pay us and he offers what he thinks it is worth to him. If he can afford to pay this, it cannot be enough for us to go. Tell him the city is ours. Now leave, before I let Marko and Sreten do what they want to do.’

I don’t usually travel alone. I normally take a bodyguard with me and I’ve grown used to that. It comes with the turf for men like me and the inconvenience factor is far outweighed by the flipside of being lifted or killed by a rival or wannabe gangster. Usually it’s Palmer, but if he isn’t with me I’ll use Joe, or one of his sons. That day it was Peter Kinane and I was comfortable enough with it. All of Joe’s sons know their shit. It’s part genetic and part training from their dad and Palmer.

It was late when we finally called for coffee at a shabby Service Station on the way back from York. The place was virtually deserted at that hour. The newsagent was closed and shuttered and we were the last visitors to trouble the coffee bar, before the guy upended chairs onto the other tables, then fucked off home and left us to it. I couldn’t see anyone else around, apart from two old blokes in overalls, absent-mindedly swishing mops back and forth across a grey, tiled floor that shone for a few moments each night when no one was around, until it dried and settled back to its usual dull, scuffed appearance. A yellow plastic sign next to them reminded us that stepping on their handiwork was likely to prove dangerous; a cartoon of a man, his feet thrown high into the air, warned us to give them a wide berth. We drained the dregs of our coffee and walked to the main door but Peter was looking uncomfortable.

‘What’s the matter with you?’ I asked him.

‘Actually,’ he said, ‘I could do with a slash.’

‘Well go then. I’m not stopping you.’

‘I know you want to get going like.’

‘You taking a wazz isn’t going to delay me that much, Peter, and it’s preferable to you fidgeting all the way back up the A1,’ I said, ‘I’ll see you at the car.’

I walked out into a crisp night. The air was fresh and cold and there was no one around. Most people would be in bed by now. I looked over at the lorry park and there were maybe a dozen huge artics lined up with makeshift covers over their windscreens to blot out the light. The drivers would be getting their heads down for a few hours before waking early, then pegging it miles down empty motorways before most normal people had brushed their teeth. I was still looking at the lorries when I heard a heavily-accented voice close by me.

‘Come with me now,’ it told me, ‘or I will kill you here.’

I turned slowly around to face the man who had threatened me. He had a young face but his eyes were cold and showed a determination that made me take him seriously. That, and the gun in his hand.

‘Come with me,’ he said again and he motioned with the gun for me to follow him. It looked like one of those Russian-made Makarovs that had flooded the streets a while back because they were so cheap. I guessed this guy was about twenty, he was heavy set and wore a white sweatshirt under a black leather jacket. There was a thick gold chain around his neck, ‘Come now,’ he ordered, his accent of east European origin.

I glanced back towards the Services, but there was no sign of Peter, or anyone else. The guy had chosen his moment perfectly. I wondered if our every move was being captured on CCTV somewhere, or if he had been thorough enough to check beforehand. Either way, it wasn’t going to help me if he was eventually convicted of my murder.

‘Where are you taking me?’ I asked, stalling for time and praying Peter would finish his piss before I was driven away.

The young guy didn’t answer me. Instead he took a few swift steps towards me then smashed the end of the barrel hard into my guts, doubling me up and winding me in the process. The pain was intense and before I could recover from it, he was dragging me towards a car he’d parked just yards from ours. Predictably it was a big silver BMW with blacked-out windows. The doors had been left unlocked. He opened the driver’s door, then bundled me inside.

‘You drive,’ he told me. The keys were in the ignition and I briefly contemplated starting the car and gunning it away from there, possibly straight through the plate glass doors of the Services, to attract as much attention as possible, but he warned me, ‘Don’t start the car till I am inside or I shoot you here. If you try to run, also I shoot you.’