Live Fire (22 page)

Mickey fastened the glove on Shepherd’s left hand. ‘Your call,’ he said. ‘Look, watch out for his roundhouse kick with his left leg. You won’t be expecting it because he normally kicks with the right. He’ll punch to the face, then fake a straight kick with his right leg, but then he drops the right and kicks with the left. He doesn’t do it a lot, but when he does, nine times out of ten it’s a knockout.’

Yates came over with a gum shield. ‘You’ll need this,’ he said. Shepherd opened his mouth and Yates slipped it in.

Mickey did a final check of Shepherd’s gloves, then helped him into the ring. ‘No rounds, just a bit of sparring,’ said Mickey. ‘Anytime you want to stop, just say.’

There was a bell on a table at one side of the ring and Yates rang it. Mark and Shepherd faced each other and gently touched gloves. They stepped back, both falling into defensive positions. Mark had his left leg back and both hands high, almost at the level of his forehead, palms down, chin pushed against his chest. He stared fixedly at Shepherd, breathing through his nose.

Shepherd was more relaxed and had his hands just above waist level, confident that he could move fast enough to block any attack from Mark. He faked a punch with his right hand to see how Mark reacted. His hands dropped to block the blow. Shepherd began to kick out with his right leg but as he did Mark stepped forward and launched a flurry of blows at Shepherd’s face. A glove clipped Shepherd’s nose and he jumped back, blinking. Mark continued his attack with an upper-cut that just missed Shepherd’s chin and three short jabs to his chest.

Shepherd fell against the ropes and Mark rushed forward, putting his gloves on Shepherd’s shoulders and driving his knee into Shepherd’s stomach. The breath exploded from his lungs and he twisted to the side, elbowing Mark in the chest. As Mark turned to follow him, Shepherd turned and hit him three times in the chest, left, right, left, then kicked him in the stomach. Mark staggered back, and Shepherd moved to the centre of the ring, fighting to get his breath back. Mark grinned at him and winked. ‘You had enough?’ he asked. Shepherd shook his head.

Mark shuffled forward, then kicked with his right foot. Shepherd stepped to the side but as he did Mark hit him with a punch to the chin that jerked his head back. Mark regained his balance as Shepherd put up his hands to protect his face. Seeing that Shepherd’s chest was unprotected, Mark jabbed him three times above the solar plexus with his right hand, grunting with each punch.

‘Go on, Mark!’ shouted Yates. ‘Give him some!’

Shepherd moved closer to Mark, not wanting to give him the chance to use his feet. He kept his head down to protect his chin and throat, and bobbed from side to side looking for a gap. Mark moved with him, keeping his hands high. Shepherd faked a punch to the chest, then swept Mark’s legs from under him with a sweeping kick. Mark hit the ground hard and rolled over before getting up. As he straightened, Shepherd kicked him in the chest, putting all his weight behind the blow. Mark fell back against the ropes but used them to bounce back into the ring, arms pumping like pistons. Shepherd blocked the blows and then got in two hard punches to Mark’s face. Mark shook his head as he ducked and wove, then lashed out with his right fist, narrowly missing Shepherd’s chin.

Shepherd shuffled backwards, feigning a punch to Mark’s face, then faked a kick.

‘Get him, Mark!’ shouted Wilson.

‘Go on, my son!’ screamed Yates.

It was time to finish the fight, Shepherd knew. And he had to make it look convincing. He stepped back and raised his arms, opening up his stomach. He started breathing heavily, making it look as if he was more tired than he actually was.

Mark grunted and threw a half-hearted punch at Shepherd’s head, which Shepherd blocked easily. Then Mark lashed out with his right leg. Shepherd lowered his arms to block the kick, knowing what was coming next. Mark dropped his right leg, transferred his weight to it, and twisted his hip to start the roundhouse kick. Shepherd saw it coming but kept his hands low. As the foot connected with the side of his head he moved to the right, trying to absorb as much of the blow as possible, but it was a powerful kick and hit him hard. His mouthguard spun across the ring. He heard a yell of triumph from Yates, then felt his legs buckle and slumped to the ground. He rolled onto his back and the room spun. He tasted bile at the back of his throat and swallowed, not wanting to throw up. He saw Mark grinning down at him triumphantly and closed his eyes to concentrate on his breathing.

Something slapped his cheeks gently. ‘Hey, come on, mate, you’re okay.’ It was Mickey.

Shepherd blinked. The room was still spinning and he closed his eyes again. Water splashed over his face and found its way between his lips. He coughed. Through half-closed eyes, he saw Mickey peering down at him, holding a plastic bottle of water. ‘Are you okay, mate?’ asked Mickey.

Shepherd opened his mouth to speak but winced at the pain in his jaw. He swallowed and tasted blood. ‘Did I win?’ he croaked.

Mickey laughed. ‘No, mate, you didn’t. I warned you about his roundhouse kick, didn’t I?’

Shepherd groaned. ‘Yes, Mickey, you warned me. Next time I’ll wear the bloody suit, okay?’

Bradshaw put on his sunglasses and pulled the peak of his baseball cap low. He was wearing gloves in case the ATM swallowed the card. There were two machines in the wall of Lloyds TSB in Edgware Road and neither was being used. He walked up to the one on the right and slotted in the card. He tapped in the four-digit code, then held his breath. In his mind he heard alarm bells ringing and boots pounding on pavements, and pictured himself surrounded by armed policemen shouting at him to get on the ground, then guns firing and bullets ripping through his body. The machine whirred, returned his card and a few seconds later ejected a wad of ten-and twenty-pound notes. Bradshaw pocketed the money and walked away from the machine, keeping his head down. He smiled to himself. He hadn’t checked the safety-deposit box yet, but he was certain that the money would be there.

Mickey waved at a waitress to bring over more drinks and slapped Shepherd on the back. ‘You all right, John?’ he asked.

‘My head’s still ringing but that could be the booze,’ said Shepherd. They were in the Angelwitch go-go bar. On stage more than a dozen lithe girls in black leather bondage gear and high-heeled black boots gyrated around the chrome poles. One of the girls, with dyed blonde hair and pneumatic breasts, kept trying to make eye contact with him, and every time his eyes met her she blew him a kiss.

Mickey, Mark and Shepherd were standing close to the stage while Yates and Wilson were sitting at a table with two bargirls.

‘She wants you, mate.’ Mickey laughed.

‘She wants my money,’ said Shepherd.

‘If you’re hoping for a love job, you’re in the wrong place,’ said Mickey.

‘Where’s Davie?’ asked Shepherd. Black had left them as soon as they’d arrived at Walking Street.

‘He’s off to Boyztown,’ said Mark.

‘Boyztown?’

‘It’s the gay area,’ said Yates. ‘Gay go-go bars, gay short-time hotels, gay saunas. It’s a poofter’s paradise.’

‘You’d never know he was gay by looking at him, would you?’ said Shepherd.

‘He’s gay, not camp,’ said Mickey. ‘We’ve known him since he was a kid and it was obvious before he was a teenager that he wasn’t interested in girls. Doesn’t matter a toss. Davie’s Davie and that’s the end of it.’

A tall girl with shampoo-commercial hair came up behind Mark and caressed his backside. She had on a black dress tight enough to show that she wasn’t wearing underwear. Mark twisted and kissed her. ‘What about you, John?’ he said.

‘I don’t want to get the clap,’ said Shepherd.

‘These girls are fine,’ said Mark, waving at the dancers. ‘They’re tested every month.’ He stroked the hair of the girl by his side. ‘They check you, right?’

‘Check?’

Mark spoke to her slowly, as if he was addressing a retarded child. ‘Doctor check you for Aids and everything?’

The girl nodded vigorously. ‘I fine,’ she said. ‘Doctor check every month.’

‘And how many guys do you think they go through in four weeks?’ said Shepherd. He indicated a small brown girl with a tattoo of a red and green dragon on her back. ‘She left with a guy an hour ago and is already back up there dancing and waiting for another customer. That’s not for me, mate.’

An obese Westerner in a Chelsea shirt, his shaven head bathed in sweat, tried unsuccessfully to climb onto the podium and fell back into a waitress, almost crushing her against the wall. He grinned at her drunkenly and slumped to the floor.

Two pretty girls appeared at Mickey’s shoulder. They were wearing tight jeans and low-cut black T-shirts and could have been twins. ‘Right, I’m taking Bee and Boo back to the villa for a seeing-to,’ he said.

‘Which one’s Bee and which one’s Boo?’ asked Shepherd.

Mickey put his arms around them. ‘Who cares?’ he asked. ‘What are you going to do?’

‘I’ll head home,’ said Shepherd.

Yates and Wilson paid their bill, then joined Mickey. ‘We’re going to Lucifer’s, pick up a few freelancers,’ said Yates.

The clammy night air washed over them as they walked through the curtain into the alley. Mickey lit a cigar and tossed the match into the gutter. The tables around the food vendors were busy, with bargirls and their customers perched on stools eating rice and noodles on plastic plates. Yates and Wilson waved goodbye and headed through the Walking Street crowds to Lucifer’s disco.

Mickey and Shepherd had parked their vehicles not far from Sharpe’s hotel and they walked together towards the beach road. Young Thai girls dressed in skin-tight shorts and low-cut tops smiled hopefully at Shepherd, and touts tried to tempt them inside the establishments that paid their wages. They walked by the police volunteers’ van and past a series of outdoor bars where hundreds of Thai girls flashed teeth and thighs at any foreigner.

‘Handsome man!’

‘Where you go?’

‘I go with you!’

The beach road was packed with baht buses and cars, all preparing to turn left at the pedestrianised Walking Street. Mickey and Mark guided their girls to the path that ran alongside the beach and Shepherd followed them. More girls stood at the side of the path or sat on concrete benches, handbags clutched in their laps. They were older than the girls Shepherd had seen in the bars, and most had bad skin, unkempt hair, cheap clothes and worn shoes. They were at the bottom of the city’s sex industry, women whose last hope was a tourist too drunk to see clearly. Shepherd doubted they had regular medical checks – they were clearly more concerned about where their next meal was coming from than their health. One stick-thin woman must have been in her fifties, her mouth a slash of scarlet lipstick across a wrinkled face, bloodshot eyes blank as she scratched a bleeding scab on her knee. Shepherd had an urge to give her some money, do something to improve her hellish life, but he could see from the telltale marks on her arms that any cash she had would go straight into her drug-dealer’s pockets.

Some of the girls at the roadside were barely out of their teens. Shepherd couldn’t tell if they were working or not but at one o’clock in the morning it was a fair assumption that they were.

‘Hey, Mickey, that’s one of the paedos,’ hissed Mark.

‘Where?’

‘Over there, talking to those two Thai kids.’

Shepherd saw a middle-aged man in horn-rimmed glasses, wearing a sweat-stained vest and shorts, sitting on a concrete bench under a palm tree, with a Thai boy on either side of him, one aged about ten, the other closer to Liam’s age. The man had his hand on the younger boy’s knee.

‘You sure?’ said Mickey.

‘Yeah – his name’s Slater or something.’

‘How do you know he’s a paedophile?’ asked Shepherd. The older boy was talking to the man but he seemed more interested in the younger one. He pointed to a hotel on the other side of the beach road and said something. The younger boy nodded and smiled.

‘I saw his picture on the—’ began Mark.

‘Doesn’t matter how we know,’ Mickey interrupted, ‘but we know. He’s from Bristol, got caught fiddling with a young boy and did a runner.’

‘What do you wanna do, Mickey?’ asked Mark.

Mickey blew a plume of smoke towards his feet. ‘Do you want to see what we do to nonces out here, John?’ he asked.

‘Same as we do in England, I hope,’ said Shepherd, playing his role but worrying about where this was headed. ‘Bastard.’

‘On the beach?’ asked Mark.

‘Short and sweet,’ said Mickey. ‘Come on.’ He patted the girls’ backsides. ‘Bee, walk on down there and wait for us,’ he said.

‘I’m Boo,’ said the girl, pouting.

‘Bee, Boo, whatever your name is, go down the road and wait for us.’ He held up his right hand, fingers splayed. ‘Five minutes.’ He handed her his cigar. ‘Keep that warm for me, darling.’

The girls tottered down the road on their precariously high heels. Mark’s girl followed them, glaring reproachfully at Mickey.

Mickey and Mark headed purposefully towards Slater, who looked up as they approached but had no time to react. ‘Come here, nonce,’ said Mark, grabbing him by the vest and pulling him to his feet.

Slater opened his mouth to scream but Mark seized his throat and pushed him towards the beach.

A Thai woman in her thirties who had been watching Slater hurried to the two boys and ushered them away. Shepherd wondered if she was their mother or their pimp. The younger boy said something to her and she clipped him around the ear.

Mickey came up behind Slater, grabbed him in a bear-hug and carried him onto the sand. Mark had released his grip on the man’s throat and now seized his legs. Slater kicked out but Mark thumped him in the solar plexus and he went into spasm. Slater was struggling but Mickey and Mark held him tight.

Shepherd followed them onto the sand. ‘What are you going to do to him?’ he asked Mark.

‘Kick the shit out of him,’ said Mark. ‘He’s a nonce. Pattaya’s full of them. Cops turn a blind eye so when we find one we make sure they know they’re not wanted.’

The Moore brothers reached the water’s edge. Mark let go of the man’s legs, then hit him in the stomach twice, left and right, putting all his weight behind the blows. Slater sagged and Mickey let him fall to the sand. Mark kicked him in the ribs and Slater curled into a foetal ball, whimpering. Mickey kicked his back, swearing with each blow.