Kerry Barnes - The Hunted

Harry flicked his narrow eyes back to the mirror. ‘I’m sorry, Paris, but I promise you this much. I will get it sorted out. But, for the moment, we need to get down to the coast. I’ve left a message for Farver to fetch Muvver and bring her down an’ all. I dunno what’s got into the dopey cow, walking around like a fart in a trance. Was it me or did you notice her behaving strangely?’

‘Yeah, she told me to take me washing and practically told me to fuck off. Menopause, I suspect. So what’s gonna ’appen now? I can’t stay in that poxy flat. I’ll get cabin fever.’

Harry didn’t answer, his mind now back on the photos of Travis. He took a few deep breaths to steady his nerves.

On the way to Gatwick Airport, Jackie fumed. Who the fuck did Mike think he was, demanding that she go to Spain? She gritted her teeth and put her foot down, using the horn at the motorist veering in front of her. Why should she do as he said? He had no right. It wasn’t as if he really cared about her. Maybe he wanted to move someone else in for a while? Could it even be his perfect ex?

Jackie went over in her head the number of times he’d looked her up and down with that expression of despair. Or perhaps it was disgust? She knew deep down she would always be compared to that woman who had fucked off and abandoned him. She would always be second best. Well, not anymore. She had her own plan. Fuck you, Mike Regan .

Ignoring the turning to Gatwick, she carried on along the M25. Ricky moaned. He needed the toilet, and in a flash, she told him to shut his mouth, which he promptly did. He didn’t want another slap from her. She pulled down the sun visor and gawped in the mirror at her sore red skin and bruised face. Her anger climbed a pitch. You just wait and see, Mike. I’ll have the last fucking laugh.

‘Sit still, ya little shit!’ she hollered, as she spotted Ricky squirming.

‘Mummy, I need to pee.’

‘Hold it in. You ain’t a baby,’ she snapped at him. Her sudden plan made her jittery. It was now or never, and Mike had just given her the final shove to put her future dream into action.

Ricky tried hard not to pee, but the rush out of the door this morning hadn’t allowed for a trip to the toilet, and now he was frightened. Beads of sweat gathered along his hairline, as he struggled not to wet himself. Then, he couldn’t hold it in any longer, and along with the torrent of wee, came a stream of tears. His mother would slap him. At least he was safe until she stopped the car. She was concentrating on the road ahead and didn’t hear the tinkling sound. A small pool gathered in the hollows of the leather seat, and slowly, not making too much noise, he removed his tracksuit top to mop up the mess. Keeping one eye on his mother, he quickly slid the top under the front seat, praying that his trousers would dry out soon.

As young as he was, little Ricky was no idiot. He had his mother sussed, and he knew that how she treated him wasn’t right. He loved his grandparents and Sacha, and adored his father, but he despised his mother. At six years old, he was fully aware of the spite she held for him. With an observant eye, he realized that they were now not off to Spain because he knew the drill: the parking, the airport customs procedures, the flight, and then the drive to the villa. They were on the motorway, passing signs and areas that he didn’t recognize and heading in the opposite direction from Kent. Then he spotted the sign for the M11; he had no idea what that meant.

* * *

Mike poured Staffie another drink. He could see that the vile act carried out on Staffie’s dog was ripping him in half. ‘Listen, Staff. Do yaself a favour and get the dog outta your ’ead. I know you loved him, but you need to get yaself together, so that we can seek justified retribution.’

Staffie looked up at the huge man and knew he was talking sense. Besides, Mike was the one man he wouldn’t argue with for two reasons: he was the hardest guy he knew, and he also respected him.

‘You will ’ave your chance to avenge ya dog’s death, but we need to round up this little Harman crew before they cause more mayhem. Got it?’

Staffie nodded and gave a smile that bared his uneven teeth, giving him a childish, goofy appearance. Many a fool regarded Staffie as being a bit simple, just because of his expression, and many regretted it. As much as he looked like a bulldog himself, he had a charm that was unmatchable.

‘Good lad,’ said Mike, as he patted Staffie on the shoulder. ‘Right, I want you all to find out as much as you can. I’m gonna pay Izzy Ezra the Jew a visit. That man knows everyone and everything. Besides all that, the bloke needs to know who’s been poking their nose into his little arrangement.’

Eric took a sharp intake of breath. ‘Ya ain’t going alone are ya, Mikey?’

With a cocky wink, Mike replied, ‘Izzy is a ruthless Jew, but, bruv, he has no grief with me. However, Harry Harman, that little grass, will most certainly be in his bad books. Izzy set up our arms racket with the Lanigans. All he asked for was a cut in return, along with no fuck-ups. But now, he’ll see the Harmans as trying to ruin his reputation. That man won’t sit back and take it, not all the while he has a skullcap to pray with.’

Within an hour, Mike was parked up behind the old jeweller’s place just off the Old Kent Road, well away from Izzy’s manor in Tottenham. The shop was just a front; the main business was conducted at the rear of the building. Mike stepped out of his car. He made sure his jacket covered the belt that held his handgun and knocked three times at the back door. He paused and knocked another two times, following the code that Izzy insisted upon.

Slowly, the door opened, and there, taking up the doorframe, was Quasimodo, whose real name was Norman. He acquired his nickname due to his size and an ugly, twisted face that only a blind grandmother could love.

‘All right, Quasi?’

There was no response, apart from a flick of his head to indicate that Mike could go in.

Passing the stacked tatty boxes and a rancid toilet without a door, Mike grinned to himself. He never failed to be amazed that after all the shit and smell from the entrance, there could be such a huge transformation. They went through the secure heavy metal door that led into Izzy’s so-called office. Row upon row of books, housed on highly polished mahogany shelves, surrounded an enormous solid wood antique desk. But the central feature was a Persian rug. Anyone who entered had to remove their shoes before stepping onto it. Mike followed the rule, and with one eye on Izzy, he flicked off his footwear and walked towards the desk. Izzy hadn’t even looked up; he was sitting on a high-backed mahogany chair and staring at a piece of jewellery through an eyepiece. Still ignoring him, he waved his hand for Mike to take a seat.

‘Seventeenth century, this piece. The scag heads around these parts have no idea of the value of what they steal for me.’

He removed the eyepiece from his face and gently placed it on the desk along with the brooch. Clasping his hands together, he leaned back. ‘I was wondering when you were going to visit me. Let me see. It’s been three days, seven hours, and thirty-six minutes since the establishment turned over your lock-up.’ His voice sounded relaxed; Mike knew, though, that it was just the calm before the storm.

‘Yes, Izzy, and it’s been forty-eight hours since I’ve discovered the fucking culprit who grassed me.’

Izzy, a middle-aged man with piercing black eyes and thick white hair, in the classic slicked-back style to match his long beard, slowly nodded. ‘You know, Mike, people swear when they have no other word to use. Anyway, I’m assuming you wanted to establish the facts before you showed up at my door?’