Robert Young - Gatecrasher

‘Keith’s the only one with any intelligence half the time.’ observed Gresham. ‘So what did the little shit do wrong?’

Warren then began to explain to his boss what had happened the previous afternoon. They had taken the other man, into a pub, feigning innocence, playing friendly, although he was clearly not convinced by their false sincerity and forced conversation as he nervously swigged back a number of drinks. Drinks they had been careful to spike.

Before long the man — Tony Cooper, another of Gresham’s crew — was slurring his words and had begun to plead with them as he dropped the pretence but his words were met with denials as they insisted not to know what he meant.

Soon they left the pub, Warren with an arm around Cooper’s shoulder as he staggered through the door. They assured him they were going for a curry and he had reluctantly stumbled along with them, eyes slightly glazed but still darting between them with suspicion.

Stuart Keane, a short man of twenty six with a prominent brow and a double chin had helped Cooper into a dark, quiet passageway — ‘Come on Tone, you must need a slash. I’m dying for one,’ — and emerged alone not two minutes later.

‘Have you done it right?’ asked Keith Slater. Slater was to all intents and purposes, Gresham’s number two, his hatchet man. Intelligent and soft-spoken he was as hard as he was cruel. But his ruthlessness made him a very efficient professional and his loyalty to Gresham was clear from the number of scars he had gained in his service and the two brief stints in prison he had done in place of his boss.

‘Fuck off Slater,’ replied Keane irritably and dropped the zip on his jacket six inches to show the dark bloodstain smudged across his sweater beneath.

‘Alright Keano. Alright. What you going to do with his stuff?’ Warren asked.

Keane frowned.

Slater looked about ready to swing at him.

‘His stuff, Stu. His wallet, his watch. It won’t look like much of a robbery if nothing’s been taken, will it you prick?’

A look of cold rage passed over Keane’s face and he span and stalked back round the corner. Warren turned to Slater whose mouth was hanging open. He smoothed his beard, usually a bad sign in Warren’s experience.

‘You fuck off home when we’re done here. I’ll take him out for a few. He’ll want to let off steam and he’s not going to do that if you’re hanging around looking to slap him,’ Warren told him. But Slater was already looking over Warren’s shoulder by now and his expression told him that all was not well.

‘He’s… Jesus! What the hell…?’ muttered Keane as he shook his head.

‘Christ Keano, what now?’ barked Slater.

‘He’s gone.’

George Gresham had quietly closed the kitchen door and showed him politely to a seat. Breezily he asked if Warren wanted a drink of something. For all the courtesy he was being shown Warren felt a palpable sense of menace. Suddenly he was acutely aware of the knife rack, the heavy looking pots that hung suspended in the corner, the gas burners on the hob. He accepted an offer of tea.

Gresham filled the kettle and Warren began to question the wisdom of having the man boil water but the last thing he was going to do was speak out of turn. His only job now was to sit and wait until the boss said something.

Thankfully he wasn’t kept waiting too long.

‘So where did this little circus take place? I mean, is Cooper running around somewhere looking for a copper? Is he going to come knocking on my door with a shooter and a grudge? You said you think he walked. Tell me it wasn’t far Jools.’

Warren shook his head slowly and tried to think of how best to finish the story. ‘Keano said he knifed him in the neck — I can’t imagine he got too far.

‘Anyway, we figured that the booze and stuff had put him half to sleep and the knife would finish the job. I guess it woke him up. We checked a few streets round there, ‘cos he must have jumped a wall or something — lots of houses round there, lots of gardens. But we didn’t find him. My guess is he started crawling off somewhere but he didn’t crawl far. Can’t have done. My guess is we check the Standard for the next few days and read about where they find him in there.

‘This was down Fulham way. He ended up going to the Chelsea, West Ham game see — goes to loads of Hammers games right? — so we kind of pretended it was all spontaneous, that we’d figured on heading down to meet him and picked up a few tickets off a tout. Handy that it was miles away from here too.’

Gresham handed Warren a cup and saucer and offered him milk from a jug. Again Warren felt the incongruity of such niceties against the topic of their conversation. He prepared himself for an onslaught from his boss — instead he got a biscuit.

‘Julius. We appear to have a situation don’t we? Yes we do George,’ he answered for him. ‘Now, you boys have fucked up and you’ve left us even deeper in it than we were this time yesterday. Not only is he still out there somewhere, where he can be spotted, identified and pulled in and take the whole lot of us down — and if you don’t know otherwise Jools then we are sure as fuck going to have assume that he is out there and looking for the nearest Old Bill to help him — but he’s walking round with a hole in his neck. And that doesn’t make us look like a nice bunch of men does it Jools? No, George, it surely does fucking not. Not to mention the fact that it was one of his best mates that shoved a blade into him — well, I think I’d fancy my chances with the Bill personally given the choice. I would think that our position and his position were pretty bloody crystal now, don’t you? Cooper’s going to find a copper as soon as he can and he’s going to give them all sorts of juicy stories to make them keep vicious bastards like you and Keane and Slater away from him.’

Warren nodded his head. Cooper, as an associate for many years, could give enough information to the police to bury the lot of them if he wanted to try to buy his own safety.

‘Which means you and Slater and Keano should be in Fulham, or wherever he’s got to, tidying this lot up.’

‘Course boss. I’ll call the lads,’ he replied trying to sound upbeat, on the ball.

‘The lads are already there aren’t they Jools?’

Warren didn’t move. Gresham stayed silent which was enough to scare the other man into responding.

‘We didn’t really know where else to look. We couldn’t exactly start knocking on doors…’

‘That, my useless friend,’ hissed Gresham through tightly clenched teeth, ‘is exactly what you could do. Pretend you’re the Bill, pretend you’re the fucking Gas man! Now get your black arse back to Fulham and start from where you left him. I don’t want to see any of you back here until you’ve made absolutely certain that that bastard isn’t going to put the whole fucking lot of us on the front page of the fucking papers!’ Gresham finished with his voice a coarse roar.

Warren stood and walked sheepishly to the front door, his shoulders low and sagging.

‘Jools,’ growled Gresham.

Warren turned.

‘They win? The Hammers?’

He shook his head and stuffed his hands into his pockets.

‘No boss. They took a spanking.’

Sunday. 12pm.

It felt like he was paralysed, like he couldn’t move at all and when his eyes flicked open he immediately squeezed them closed again.

Campbell’s head thumped like something was trying to pound its way out through his temples. Slowly he drew his arm up and wrapped it over his eyes, burying the bridge of his nose in the crook of his elbow. After a moment he became aware of his tongue which felt like it was slightly too large for his mouth and as if it had been stuck in place with something foul tasting.