Tony Black - Loss

I tried to get a deck at the fella. He was dark-haired and heavy, that was about all I could see. He passed the window another couple of times then disappeared. The light went out after him.

‘Think that’s our man?’ said Mac.

‘Our… Radek?’ said Hod. ‘Couldn’t tell.’

‘Well, let’s give the cunt a pull anyway,’ said Mac. He leaned forward in his seat, twisted. ‘Come on, Gus… get the door open.’

I put a hand on his chest, shoved him back down. ‘Just give it time.’

‘What do you mean, give it time?’ Mac scented blood: he was gantin’ to burst some heads, any he could get his hands to.

‘I want to see what the lie of the land is,’ I said. ‘Trust me, I have a game plan here.’

Mac sat back in his seat, mouthed off, ‘I thought we came here to go in, no’ just sit outside.’ He picked up the bolt-cutters, started to snap them.

I spoke over him: ‘Hod, tell me about this guy again.’

‘Radek’s a nut-job… seriously off his cake. I spoke to a few more boys off the sites — no one’s got a different opinion. Although there’s quite a bit of guesswork going on around town as to why he’s over here.’

‘Oh, aye…’

‘Rumour has it he’s a wanted man back home. You get that shite a lot on the sites when someone appears from elsewhere, but mostly it’s talk, someone biggin’ himself up. Nobody doubts it’s true in Radek’s case.’

Like this mattered now. But I was interested. ‘What do they say he’s wanted for?’

‘That’s the thing, nobody knows.’ Hod shrugged. ‘If it was just bullshit, folk would know all about it.’

Mac tapped on the dash. ‘Aye, aye.’ The door of the house eased open, our man in the white hoodie appeared. He spoke into a mobile phone as he locked the door. When he jumped down the steps we all saw that he fitted the description of Radek perfectly.

‘Right, let’s nash,’ said Hod. He opened his door.

‘Wait,’ I yelled. A black Pajero pulled up in front of the house. The bloke tugged the hoodie over his head as he jumped in the front. The driver gave a quick glance into the road and spun wheels.

‘Fucking hell, he’s on the move,’ said Mac.

Hod slammed his door, put the key back in the ignition, said, ‘We going after him, then?’

‘Sit tight.’

‘Gus, Jesus, the fucker’s getting away,’ said Mac.

We watched the Pajero speed up. The driver did a left-to-right at the end of the street, then burned it. We got close enough to see into Radek’s eyes as he passed us.

‘That’s our man,’ said Hod.

‘That was our man,’ said Mac.

I pulled the door handle, stepped out onto the street. The pair of them looked at me like I’d suggested colonic irrigation all round. ‘Come on, then.’ I held the door, waved them out, ‘Are you coming or not? And you better get those bolt-cutters.’

My foot struck a Lech lager can as I walked to the house — they’d replaced the Omega cider ones round here. I kicked out, put the can in the air. Mac and Hod followed from the truck. I had a hand jemmy in the pocket of my Crombie, but I wondered if I might have been better getting hold of something with a little more firepower. I’d passed the point where I gave a shit for myself, but I worried about the pair behind me. If we ran into any grief, I knew they could handle themselves better than most, but I replayed those pictures of Andy’s face. The sight of his tongue, cut out and attached to his chest with a knife, wasn’t an image I was going to forget any time soon.

‘What you thinking here, Gus?’ said Hod.

‘He locked the door behind him, so I’m guessing the joint’s empty.’

Hod jogged up to my side. ‘That’s no’ much fucking use to us.’

He was well wrong. I said, ‘You don’t know what might be in there, Hod… Might be the belly of the whale.’

He looked at me like I’d gone scripto, turned to Mac and raised a finger in a swirling motion at his ear. Mac firmed his jaw and focused on the front door of the house.

As we left the road and started up the driveway my guts tightened. I gripped the jemmy in my pocket and took a sketch down the street. The place was quiet; it was too cold to be venturing out of doors unless totally necessary.

The house looked like a doss, the paint peeling from the door and every window frame. There was only one set of curtains hanging: the rest of the windows were covered by taped-down newspaper and pinned-up, faded pieces of cloth. It was an end terrace. The house next door had been recently whitewashed, but this joint was painted grey and hadn’t been touched up for a few years. A pallet of cement sat in the front garden, a tarpaulin stretched over it, and what looked like a rusty alternator had been left by the doorstep.

A dog barked ahead of us.

Mac spoke: ‘That’s not up the path, is it?’

I turned, saw the dog over the fence. ‘It’s in the next garden.’

‘Thank fuck for that.’

I nodded towards the side of the house, the others followed. A jerry-built carport was attached to the gable end. I imagine it looked as ramshackle the day it went up. Hod put a hand on the supporting block, shook it. ‘Nobody sneeze,’ he said. ‘That’s bloody rough work.’

At the edge of the path a gate rattled in the wind. It had a hasp-lock secured with a wooden peg; I slid out the peg and opened the gate, its hinges screaming out for oil. ‘Anyone bring the 3-in-1?’ I said.

Mac shoved me through. Hod followed and closed the gate behind us.

More building supplies cluttered the back yard. A cement mixer and a trailer filled with pickaxes that didn’t look as though they’d been used in months. Several layers of frost had settled on them; I’d take bets they’d remain stuck together for the rest of the winter.

Hod peered into the basement window. The steps leading down there lay covered in ice. ‘Looks empty.’

‘You not going to check?’ said Mac.

‘See the state of those stairs? Fuck that… I’d be on my arse.’

Mac eased up to the extension, looked as if it might be a kitchen. He checked in the window, said, ‘What a fucking kip house.’

Hod and I joined him. Inside sat a row of bunks; they were made of bare, untreated wood and looked as if they’d been put together with nail guns. On the bunks lay empty sleeping bags, in between them sat a large blue Calor gas bottle. A rubber hose came from the bottle, but it didn’t seem to be connected to anything.

‘Not exactly the Balmoral, is it?’

Hod tried the handle on the back door, then looked at us and shook his head. ‘It’s double-locked.’

I leaned over, tested it. ‘You’re right.’ I put the jemmy in the jamb and prised away. It eased a couple of inches and we heard the first lock give. I pressed the jemmy in again, higher up the frame; I didn’t need to apply any force before the second lock sprung open. I pushed the door in.

The air came thick with a confusion of smells, predominantly paraffin. Beside the back door a wheelie bin had been brought in. It overflowed with takeaway cartons and crushed-up lager cans; someone had tried to flatten them into the bin, succeeded only in spilling them on the floor.

‘It’s Abe Lincoln in here,’ said Hod.

‘Somebody needs to get about with the Shake ’n’ Vac, eh.’ The soles of my Docs stuck to the carpet as I walked. More bunks sat out behind the door, greasy sleeping bags lying on top of them. In the hallway was a spare 4x4 tyre and another two bunks, head to toe.

As we looked about the place we kept our voices down. In every room as many bunks as possible had been crammed in. Odd signs of habitation showed here and there, like a can of deodorant or a pair of socks drying on a radiator, but the bareness of the place was startling.