Doctor Who: Bad Therapy (23 page)

Blue-eyed Billy Spot! The short man stepped out of the shadows, took a last drag on his roll-up and ground it out beneath his heel. Billy Spot was a charismatic and attractive young man, probably in his late twenties. He was short and stocky. The way he moved suggested that he was comfortable with himself, untroubled and at ease. He was an East End lad growing gracefully into an East End man. Gordy had heard that Billy Spot had worked as a barrow boy for his old man, until he’d decided that robbing banks was a more lucrative way of earning a living than selling fruit and veg. Gordy could easily imagine Billy working on a market in the East End, sharing a joke and a natter with regular customers. It was hard to imagine him acting violently or committing a crime.

But Gordy knew that this was a man who’d ripped off three banks in as many years, who was rumoured to have killed four men and half as many women. This man was a hero. Gordy envied his city-wide reputation.

Gordy could have cried out with joy, when the armed robber nodded respectfully to him. The devil had certainly come up with the goods this time.

Gordy didn’t care what kind of magic the devil had cast to make it come true.

127

With men of this calibre and reputation in his employ, Gordy could really make his mark in Soho.

He’d show those bastards who’d told him that he wasn’t up to running the Scraton gang. The accusations had started soon after his brother’s funeral.

Albert’s men had said that he was weak, that he was a coward, that he wasn’t up to the job. Well, they’d be singing a different tune now. They’d soon come crawling back wanting to be in on his rackets when they heard that he had the likes of Billy Spot working for him. He could take Soho in a matter of days.

No, once the word got out, he would be running the whole town in a matter of
hours
.

Gordy tried to conceal his excitement; it wouldn’t do to let on to his new army that he was impressed with them.

‘I hear you got a little job for me?’ Spot said, matter-of-factly.

Gordy felt himself nodding quickly, stupidly, and he tried to get a grip on himself. He swallowed and forced himself to take slow, deep breaths.

‘That’s right,’ he managed, after a few seconds. ‘I want you to see to a couple of people, put them out of action, you know, permanently.’

Spot nodded. ‘Who do you want killed?’ he said, as if he were asking what type of beer Gordy fancied. Gordy was shocked and more than a little intimidated by this casual attitude to murder.

‘No one important. Just a kid and a couple of queers,’ Gordy said quickly.

Too quickly. ‘I’d get Carl, my brother, to do it, only he can get a bit carried away, a bit too excited. You know what I mean?’

Billy Spot nodded, knowingly. ‘You mean he takes pleasure in his work, that’s the sign of a real craftsman, that is. You got an address?’

Carl Scraton was a simple creature. His entire world revolved around his brother, Gordy. There was simply no one else in his life. No mates, no women, no one. Beyond his brother, the only other meaningful, long-term relationship he maintained was with the cut-throat razor he kept in his jacket pocket.

He put the Rover into gear and drove the large black car out of Soho, heading West. Unconsciously, he slipped his hand to the razor in his pocket and fingered it nervously. He stole a quick glance at the armed robber sitting in the passenger seat of the car. Since this morning, his life had suddenly become more complicated.

Carl had experienced a new emotion as he had watched his brother chatting and joking with Billy Spot. It was a bitter feeling that made him feel a little sick in his stomach.

He was jealous. He’d never felt it before. Never had a reason to. Not until Billy Spot had entered their lives that morning, capturing his brother’s attention in moments.

128

Carl’s hand went to his cheek, he ran his finger along the scar that had formed over the wound there.

Billy Spot started to whistle jauntily.

Mikey was making Dennis’s breakfast when the window to their lodgings opened from the outside and his roommate tumbled in from the fire escape.

For some reason, Jack was wearing a pair of filthy pyjamas.

‘Hello, Mikey,’ Jack said, cheerfully, and swiped the slice of toast that Mikey had just buttered for little Dennis.

‘Hey!’ Mikey tried to grab the toast back, but Jack was too quick for him.

‘Where have you been? The police have been here and everything.’

‘The police?’

‘Inspector Harris. Wanted to know if I ’ad seen you or your new friend. That little man.’

‘Oh right,’ Jack said, and handed Dennis the remains of the piece of toast, before rooting through his wardrobe for some clothes.

‘Thanks Uncle Jack,’ Dennis grinned.

‘He’s not your uncle,’ Mikey snapped, ritually. ‘Don’t call him that.’

Mikey was confused. This casual confidence wasn’t like Jack at all. They’d shared the room for almost a year now and he felt that he knew Jack pretty well. Just mentioning the police usually made him nervous. Something about Jack’s cheerfulness bothered Mikey. Jack’s bare feet were filthy and covered in tiny cuts. He looked like someone who had just walked away from an accident and was trying to convince everyone that they were fine. ‘Jack, what’s going on?’

Jack pulled a sweater over his pyjamas. ‘You wouldn’t believe it, not in a month of Sundays.
I
don’t believe it and I was there.’

‘Where? What are you talking about?’

‘I’m really not sure. I haven’t slept, not properly, not since the day before yesterday. Look, Mikey, you need to pack, just some clothes for you and Dennis. I’ll explain everything later.’

‘Are we going on our holidays?’ Dennis asked, excitedly, his mouth full of buttery toast.

Mikey glanced at his little brother and shook his head. ‘No, we are not. Eat your breakfast,’ he scolded and turned back to Jack. ‘You don’t make no sense.

I’ve got to get to work. It’s the first chance I’ve had to do some overtime this month.’

Jack slipped a pair of his paint-streaked work trousers over his pyjama bottoms. ‘Forget overtime. It’s not important.’

Mikey raised his eyebrows at this. Now he knew that there was something wrong. Jack was always trying to get more overtime at the building site, 129

although Mikey never knew why as he never seemed to spend any money.

‘Jack, you know I need the extra work so’s I can feed me boy. Hey, ain’t you gonna wash, you filthy git?’

‘No time. Look, Dennis is in danger. We’re all in danger. The Doctor’s given me the address of a house in Kent we can stay at. How much money have you got?’

‘I ’aint got no money, that’s why I need the work. Why are you saying that Dennis is in trouble? Is this some kind of sick joke?’

Jack sat down on his bed, suddenly. ‘It’s no joke, Mikey,’ he said, his voice solemn. ‘Eddy’s dead. Killed. The Doctor found him near the paper stand.

The Scratons killed Eddy and now they’re after Dennis.’

The Scratons
! What the hell had Jack got himself involved in?

For a moment there was a shocked silence and then Mikey and Jack both jumped at the sound of a chair being knocked over backwards. Dennis leapt up and ran around the table, wrapping himself tightly around Mikey’s waist.

The houses in Notting Hill were grey, battered and dusty. There were few cars on the roads – those that there were moved quickly, as if their drivers were eager to hurry through the area and get to the comparative safety of Bayswater.

A canal ran parallel to the road, the Grand Union. Carl whispered the name to himself. He hated to be away from his brother and the familiar streets of Soho. Carl found it reassuring to be able to name some of the sights outside the car in this strange and desolate part of the city, as if he were marking a trail home. There weren’t any boats in sight on the Grand Union Canal – Carl would have liked to have seen some boats – but he knew that nothing floated on the Grand Union, nothing except for dead cats and used contraceptives.

Carl sneered at the people who weaved their way through the rubbish and wrecked furniture which littered the pavements and gutter. Ageing Teds with their ridiculous hair and old-fashioned clothes were clumped in small groups in front of houses, their conversation full of empty boasts and alcohol. Worn out old people as grey as their clothes dragged wheeled shopping bags behind them, going nowhere. Out-of-business prostitutes chatted the day away, having lost their customers to younger girls.

Carl Scraton hated them all. They were filthy broken people. They didn’t deserve to live in the same city as respectable, decent white folk. Especially not the blacks. And they were everywhere in Notting Hill.

Thinking of them reminded Carl of his task. They were near the place where the paperboy lived: Carl had carefully memorized the road names before he left the club. Just thinking about the paperboy made Carl tense up. He’d had him in his hands the other night and he’d let him get away. He should have 130

finished him, stuck his knife in him. But he’d failed. Failed to do the job.

Failed his brother. If he’d done the job properly, then there wouldn’t be any need to drive out here with Billy Spot. Maybe there wouldn’t have been any need for Billy Spot to be here at all. Everything might be the same as it usually was.

The man in the passenger seat continued to whistle. The sound was really getting on Carl’s nerves. He started to imagine what it would be like to hurt Billy Spot. To make him cry out in pain. To wipe the smile from that broad, attractive face; knock a few teeth out of that laddish smile. Carl gripped the steering wheel tightly and drove on.

‘Tell me,’ Billy Spot said, out of nowhere, in his bright cockney accent, ‘don’t you think it’s a little strange that your man Gordy wants a little boy killed?’

That was it! Carl hit the brakes. The car skidded to a halt, the back swinging around until the Rover was at a right angle to the road, blocking both lanes of the quiet street.

Without needing to think about it, his razor was between his fingers, and its blade up against Billy Spot’s throat.

‘You don’t question my brother’s orders, all right?’ He scraped the edge of the razor against Spot’s Adam’s apple. ‘You understand?’

Billy Spot raised his hands in a gesture of submission. ‘Whatever you say.’

He tried to smile, but Carl could see that beneath the smile the armed robber was scared. That made Carl feel good. He started to relax and let out a giggle.

He left the cut-throat resting lightly on the armed robber’s throat for a long moment, fighting the urge to open an artery.

Behind them, someone sounded their horn.

Reluctantly, Carl tucked the knife away in his jacket pocket. ‘This is my job.

I’m gonna do the boy. He’s mine.’

‘You’re the boss,’ Billy Spot said, sounding anxious.

‘I’m the boss,’ Carl repeated. ‘That’s right. Just as long as we understand each other.’

‘Perfectly,’ Billy Spot replied, and wiped his forehead with a brightly patterned handkerchief. ‘Perfectly.’

Mikey took one look back at the room, before he climbed out of the window and then reached back in and lifted Dennis out. He wondered if he would ever see the place again. The room was small and damp and sharing it between four of them hadn’t been easy, particularly when he’d finally worked out why Jack and Eddy didn’t sleep top to tail like he and little Dennis always did.

Yeah. That
had
been quite a surprise.

It had taken a long time to find a landlady who would have a Jamaican as a tenant, and Mikey didn’t relish having to go trudging through the streets hunt-131

ing for accommodation again. Particularly not now that he had his brother to think of as well. At first he’d been shocked when he realized why he had found it so hard to find a room, when most of the English lads on the site hadn’t had any trouble at all. It was only later that he had felt angry.

Jack climbed out of the window after them, his duffel bag slung over his shoulder.

‘Ready?’ Jack asked, and Mikey nodded.

They made their way down to the street, careful to duck under the front window of Mrs Carroway’s sitting room. Neither of them were up to date with the rent and Jack’s was months behind. They paused a little way down the street so Mikey could tie Dennis’s shoelaces.

Mikey was pulling the last bow tight when he heard Jack curse. He stood up in time to see a large, expensive-looking car heading down the road towards them. The saloon car was completely out of place in their street.

He turned to Jack, who was staring at the car. ‘What? Is that them?’

‘I dunno. It could be the law, I suppose?’

As the car drew close, it suddenly accelerated towards them.

Mikey

glimpsed two young white men in the front seats, glaring intently at them.

Mikey had seen that look before.

‘That’s not the law. Come on, Jack, we gotta get out of here! Run!’ Discard-ing his bags, Mikey took one of Dennis’s hands, Jack took the other and they set off down the street pulling the boy along between them.

‘Whee!’ Dennis yelled, oblivious to the danger, kicking the air as his feet left the ground.

Fear gripped Mikey and he found it hard to take proper breaths as he ran.

How were they going to get Dennis away from the Scratons? If the little boy had seen them kill Jack’s friend, then they wouldn’t stop until they had got him. There was no way they were going to be able to get away on foot. He could hear the throaty sound of the car’s engine as it came alongside them, effortlessly matching their desperate pace.

Please don’t let them have guns! Mikey prayed, but he didn’t dare look across to see.

As they reached the end of Silchester Road, the car mounted the pavement, the wheels hitting the kerb with a thump. It crashed into the front wall of one of the derelict Victorian town houses on the other side of the pavement, cutting off their escape.

Mikey and Jack skidded to a halt and started back down the street, still clutching little Dennis between them.