The Evil And The Pure (11 page)

He discussed Shula with Phials sometimes, late at night, dizzy from too many Buds or Millers, talking big, making plans. He’d impress the Bush, make lots of money, earn Shula’s love and respect, then whisk her off to America. He was in love with the idea of America. He’d always dreamt of moving there, becoming part of the American dream. He felt he’d fit in more easily across the ocean, especially with a beautiful wife by his side. For a long time he had only dreamt idly of the move. Now he was seriously considering it, looking for ways to make it happen, Shula the spur for his reawakened desire to do more with his life.

Phials listen
ed with a wry smile when Clint rattled on about Shula and the States, saying little until Clint would ask him to describe America, its cities, its people, its gangsters. Then he’d talk for hours, recalling the good times, boasting of the power he’d wielded, the success he’d enjoyed — money, women, sports cars, part-ownership of a night club. All lost to the demons of addiction, wealth squandered, trusts betrayed, deserted by his friends, forced to flee the country, hounded for debts he owed and lives he’d ruined.

“I did terrible things,” he said one night, eyes glazed, staring at the blank TV screen after a Bogie double-bill. “
Designer drugs have always been my thing. I was cautious, tested my product thoroughly before releasing it to market. But as I got hooked, I lost control. Towards the end I pumped experimental drugs out on to the streets. People died. I hear their cries sometimes when I dream.”

“Is that what you’re
making now?” Clint asked.

Phials squinted. “Hasn’t your cousin told you what I do?”
Clint shook his head. “You haven’t asked about me?”

Clint shrugged. “
I didn’t want to pry.”

Phials smiled. “You won’t get rich that way. You’ve gotta take an interest in people if you want to use them.”

Clint laughed edgily. “I don’t want to use you.” Then, curious, “How could I?”

“I’m a money machine,” Phials said softly, staring deep into the blank screen.
“I invent. I’m a magician. If you wanted to live dangerously and take a gamble, you might try and find out what I was working on, double-cross your cousin, try and cut a deal with me, maybe take the shit off my hands and sell it yourself.”

Clint
grinned weakly. “I cuh-couldn’t. Dave’s been guh-good to me, he trusts me. Besides, if I did, and he fuh-fuh-found out…”

Phials silent, no response. Then
, “Know what I want?”

“What?”

“Tulip. Is she free?”

“I don’t know.”
Clint produced his mobile and chuckled, confident now that he was back on familiar territory. “But I can soon find out.”

Kevin and
Tulip Tyne — an unexpected goldmine. Jack Mack had introduced them. Jack supplied dealers like Clint with coke. One of his guys used to sell to Kevin but he’d got busted. Jack Mack gave Clint the unfortunate dealer’s list of contacts. Kevin was one of the names. The pair met a few times, business as usual, Kevin just another client as far as Clint was concerned.

Then Clint a
rrived one afternoon to find Jack Mack sitting in his garden with a business associate, both men high, talking sex. Jack wanted to hear about Clint’s sex life. Clint invented wild tales to appear the equal of the others, babbled about threesomes, nymphos, the mile high club. Jack Mack told him he could top all that.

“Y
ou sell to Kevin Tyne. Nice guy, huh? But I bet you don’t know about his sister.” Nudged the other guy in the ribs. “This shit you
won’t
believe.”

Jack Mack told them that the
brother and sister provided sexual services to a small group of hand-picked customers, very exclusive, very hush-hush. The girl was young, fifteen or sixteen, and would do whatever you wanted, but only as long as the brother could watch.

“He drifts about, watching you fuck her, takes
off his clothes and jerks off.”

“That’s all he does?” Jack Mack’s guest –
he never gave his name – frowned. “He doesn’t get it on with you or the sister?”

“Never touched either one of us,” Jack Mack giggled. “I only did it once
, to see what it was like — a hell of an experience, but not my scene. Most of their clients are sick fucks who need to be watched, who get off on it.”

“Can’t be much demand for
something like that,” Jack’s guest mused.

“You’d be surprised,” Jack Mack laughed.

Clint thought about Kevin and his sister a lot over the next few weeks. He met Kevin a couple of times to sell to him. Clint wanted to verify the story but was afraid that Kevin would take his business elsewhere if Clint offended him. He couldn’t afford to lose a regular client like Kevin Tyne, so he kept his mouth shut.

A
couple of months later, at one of Dave’s parties, he heard his cousin talking about some chemical genius who worked for him. “Getting itchy,” Dave sighed. “Locked up too long. I supply him with all the hookers he asks for, but he likes it kinky. I haven’t found any who can hold his interest. I’ve thrown him every type going. Phials takes them all then asks for more. I don’t know what to send next.”

“Actually,” Clint coughed, seizing the m
oment, atypically daring, “I know a bruh-brother and sister, weird fuh-fuh-fucking sh-shit. I could suh-set him up with them if you wuh-wuh-wuh-wanted…”

At
his next meeting with Kevin, he nervously admitted to having heard about Kevin’s sister and their act, careful not to mention Jack Mack. Kevin was angry, denied it, thought Clint was trying to entrap him. Clint calmed him down, said he’d known for some time, didn’t care, wouldn’t have brought it up except he had an offer for Kevin, a client who was discreet and could pay handsomely. Kevin eventually agreed to visit Phials for a trial session.

Clint
met Phials for the first time the next night, at the lab, when he made the introductions. Kevin and Tulip were edgy, Phials bemused, not sure what he was letting himself in for. Clint lingered outside while they were having sex, waiting to take the Tynes home, nervous, wondering how cousin Dave would react if the chemist complained. Phials emerged naked, buzzing, beaming. Clasped Clint’s shoulders and barked, “I want them again. I don’t care what they cost. Give me your number.”

The Bush
surprised and impressed, Clint elated. That was when the world had started to open up a little for him. Then Shula had entered his life and Phials had invited him to hang out. It was all coming together. Clint was gathering momentum and there was no telling where it might end. Today a mad doctor and a couple of incestuous sex fetishists, tomorrow Shula Schimmel (
Mrs Clint Smith
) and the U.S. of Clint.

It was late when Clint phoned. Tulip was sleeping. Kevin thought about refusing the
appointment, but Phials was a valuable customer and Clint had set them up with a few of Dave Bushinsky’s other associates recently. He couldn’t risk queering the deal, so he shook Tulip awake. She grumbled, tried to dissuade him, but he persisted. An hour later Tony Phials was sweating, thrusting in and out of Tulip, her eyes fixed on the ceiling, detached, silent, Kevin circling voraciously.

Afterwards, while Tulip was dressing and Phials was flaked out across his bed, Kevin collared Clint,
who as usual was waiting outside. “Do you know a guy called Martin Laskey?”

“Heard of him.”

“We have an appointment with him tomorrow. East London. His place.”

“So?”
Clint asked.

“He knows how we work but I’m not convinced he’
ll abide by the rules. I think he only wants Tulip, that he might try to force me out of the equation.”

“Why don’t you
sack him off?”

Kevin scowled.
“The money’s
good
. He kept upping the offer when I said no. It’s hard to resist.”

Clint
shrugged. “What do you want me to do about it?”

“Alone, I can’t stop him if he throws me out. But if we had a bodyguard…”

Clint frowned. “You want one of Dave’s men to go with you?”

Kevin nodded
reluctantly. “This isn’t the first time I’ve had reservations about an appointment. In the past I’ve cancelled or taken the risk. If we had someone to protect us, it would make life simpler.”

“Protection
isn’t cheap,” Clint drawled, not sure if it was or wasn’t.

“I’ll meet any reasonable price,” Kevin said.

Clint cracked his knuckles, trying to exude confidence. “I’ll talk with Dave and sort something out.”

The Bush
was interested when Clint called in to see him the next morning in his Whitechapel office, one of several dotted around the city. “Forget payment,” he said. “We’ll provide protection for free.”

“So that he’ll owe us a favour?” Clint asked.

“Partly. But mostly to find out who their clients are. Vice is power. A man’s weaknesses can be used against him, especially if he’s a public figure.”

“But
Kevin’s willing to pay,” Clint said, eager to make a quick profit, wanting to get a new suit so that he might catch Shula’s eye the next time she saw him.

The Bush smiled patiently. “If we make them pay, they’ll
ask for assistance only when it’s imperative. If we throw in a bodyguard for free, they’ll make use of him all the time. We’ll learn a lot more that way.”

That night Kevin opened the door to Clint Smith and one of the largest men he’d ever seen. Clint introduced
him as Big Sandy Murphy then left them together, anxious to be out of there, still nervous around Big Sandy, wishing his cousin had sent another of his goons.

Big Sandy smiled reassuringly at Kevin as the door closed. “It’s OK,” he said. “I’m house-trained.”

Kevin smiled weakly. Tulip stepped out of the bedroom, paused when she saw the giant. He nodded politely and Kevin told her who he was. “Nice to meet you, Mr Murphy,” she said, shaking his hand, hers almost invisible in his.

“Call me Big Sandy,” he
said, studying the small girl, her sad eyes, the gold cross around her neck, wondering why she did this, if her brother forced her or if she volunteered. Not too concerned either way. None of his business.

“Can I get you something to drink?” Kevin asked, not liking the way Big Sandy was
staring at his sister.

“Just water,” Big Sandy said. Tulip returned to the bedroom to prepare. Big Sandy followed Kevin into the tiny kitchen. “Tell me about tonight.”

“You don’t know?” Kevin asked, surprised.

“I know what you do.
But tell me about Martin Laskey, why you’re nervous. The more I know, the more I can guard against.”

Kevin shrugged. “I just want to make sure he honours our bargain.”

“You want to make sure he lets you watch him fuck your sister.”

Kevin blushed angrily. “Yes.”

“OK,” Big Sandy nodded. “I can take care of that.”

A long cab ride east, Big Sandy up front beside the driver, Kevin and Tulip in the back, everybody silent.
Kevin spread a line of coke across his knee when they stopped. Tulip leant over and snorted. Big Sandy said nothing, though his lips puckered with disapproval. It was a shame to see a young life wasted. Tulip couldn’t be much older than the daughter he had long ago lost contact with. Girls that age shouldn’t be snorting coke and fucking for cash. Seeing Tulip sell herself cheaply like this made Big Sandy worry about his own girl.

Laskey opened the door
of his apartment, smiling lazily. His smile disappeared when he saw Big Sandy. “Who’s this?” he snapped.

“I’m with
the Tynes,” Big Sandy answered before Kevin could.

“I know you,” Laskey growled. “You work for Dave Bushinsky
.”

“Tonight I work for
the Tynes,” Big Sandy responded calmly.

“Why’s he here?” Laskey asked Kevin. “You want him to watch too?”

“I –” Kevin began.

“
The Tynes are associates of Mr Bushinsky,” Big Sandy interrupted. “He asks me to accompany them on certain occasions.”

Martin Laskey grinned broadly.
“You’re a bodyguard. That’s OK. I thought the kid wanted to make it a foursome. In that case, come in, you’re welcome, my casa’s your casa. Drink?”

“Just show me where I can wait.”

They left Big Sandy in Martin Laskey’s study. Laskey escorted the brother and sister to his bedroom, a four-poster bed, a table beside it like a doctor’s operating table, laden with sex toys, dildos, rubber masks, a nurse’s costume.

“What’s this shit?” Kevin
yapped.

“We’re here to have fun, right?” Laskey smiled lewdly.

“No accessories,” Kevin said stiffly, feeling Tulip tense beside him.

“Don’t be prudish,” Laskey laughed. “I’m paying enough
to be entitled to a few extras.” He reached for Tulip. Kevin stepped between them.

“We do it straight or we call it off.”

“Don’t fuck with me, Tyne.” Laskey’s face hard, eyes narrow. Alone, Kevin would have been terrified. But they weren’t alone.

“Don’t make me call Big Sandy,” he said softly.

Laskey hesitated. “Kevin, don’t take it the wrong way, I want to have fun, I don’t mean to threaten you or –”

“Straight sex. Me watching. That’s all.” Strong, knowing he had Big Sandy to back him up, standing firm, not afraid.

Laskey pulled a face. “At least have her put on the nurse’s uniform.”

Kevin checked with Tulip. She shrugged. “
OK.” Laskey beamed.

Kevin
waved Tulip forward and shut the door, feeling bigger than he’d ever felt before, knowing he didn’t have to fear Laskey or anyone else any more, already thinking about how he could manipulate his newfound power, calculating where it could take him, what it could free him to do.

EIGHT

“
Rangers fucking scum
!” Gawl screamed, lobbing a half-full pint glass at the stranger in the Rangers t-shirt. The man had entered the pub twenty minutes earlier with three friends. Gawl had been eyeballing them ever since. It was ten forty-five, he’d been drinking since seven, itching for a fight, the t-shirt a red rag to a Celtic bull.

The Rangers fan
was taken by surprise. There had been no build-up, no banter, no warning. One second, drinking with his friends, laughing at a joke, enjoying the night. The next, a glass shattering against the back of his head, toppling sideways, a large, scarred, bellowing maniac lunging at him through a quickly parting crowd, rough fingers squeezing his throat. His friends stared, shocked, then dropped their drinks and waded in, tugging Gawl off, kicking and punching him.

Gawl turned on the
man’s allies, snarling, spitting, elated. Threw wild punches, rammed one in the groin with his head, bit into another’s thigh. The other customers in the bar watched with interest or weariness. The barmen screamed at Gawl to stop. The younger of the two tried to leap over the bar, grabbing a crowbar from beneath the counter. His older colleague stopped him, shaking his head — let them wear themselves out, easier to break apart and herd away.

The Rangers fan was back on his feet, blood pouring from where the glass had shattered, face contorted with hate.
He reached into a pocket and produced a knife. “Hold him still,” he shouted. “I’ll cut the fucker open from bollocks to brain.” Gawl heard the threat, saw the knife, laughed and pulled a knife of his own, twice the size.

Gawl howled,
“If that’s the way ye want it, ye wee shite!” He slashed. One of the men’s arms opened, blood spraying.

The four men
retreated warily, the one with the slit arm crying with pain, the Rangers fan jabbing at Gawl with his knife, warding him off, looking for the exit. Gawl hurled curses at them, challenged them to stand and fight, tried slipping within range of the dancing knife. When the men broke and raced for the door, he stumbled after them, saw he wasn’t going to catch them – too drunk – and hurled his knife at the man bringing up the rear. It stuck deep in his lower back and he fell out of the pub, shrieking, dragged away by his friends, trailing blood.

“Fuck!” Gawl shouted,
angry at having wasted a good knife. He should have thrown a glass or a bottle of beer.

Gawl turned back towards the bar, thirsty,
buzzing, grinning. Saw the barmen, one holding a crowbar, the other on the phone to the police. “Get the fuck out,” the older barman snapped, covering the mouthpiece with a hand.

“Make me,” Gawl retorted. The younger barman slapped the c
rowbar into the palm of his hand. Gawl laughed, delighted — the stupid wee fuck thought he had the beating of the Scot. Gawl wouldn’t be long putting him right.

He was stepping forward to take on the barman when his self-protective drive kicked in.
The older barman was too calm, he must know that help was on its way, maybe he paid for priority service. Gawl was certain he could take the younger man – and any others who fucked with him – but he’d done enough jail time and was in no hurry to go back. Spitting at the barmen, he lurched from the pub, wiping sweat, blood and beer from his face, trying to look casual, making for the safety of the underground.

Swinging into Hampstead station. Stoma
ch lurching as the lift dropped — the deepest shaft in London. He vomited in the lift. The other passengers were disgusted. A woman berated him. Gawl ignored her, vomited again, wiped his lips clean. The lift hit bottom. He went searching for a train headed south. Chuckled as he staggered along. A good laugh of a night.

Noon. Gawl woke, bladder bursting. He rolled off his creaking, stinking mattress and shuffled to the bathroom. He pissed, yawning and scratching his stomach. His penis shuddered and piss flew across the toilet rim, splashing the wall and floor. Gawl took no notice, shook himself dry, returned to bed, dozed until three.

Depressed when he
woke again. Hungover. Parched. He searched the floor and found an almost full bottle of cider — Gawl liked to plan ahead. Gulping greedily from the bottle, he spluttered some of the cider over his chest and the mattress. He coughed, cleared his throat, finished the bottle. Sighed happily and belched. Stared at the light shining through the curtains. Tried to check his watch, remembered he’d lost it on a bet a few nights earlier (something to do with football, he couldn’t remember exactly), looked to the alarm clock on his right. Groaned when he saw the time — he’d hoped it was later. Gawl didn’t like drinking before nine (last night had been an exception, the thirst had hit early). Nobody of any merit came out before nine. What was he supposed to do for six fucking hours?

Mulling it over, Gawl star
ed moodily at the ceiling, reflecting on the past few weeks. A lousy time, one setback after another. Rejected whenever he enquired about a job. Word had spread that he was too violent, unpredictable, had stirred up trouble in Glasgow, was an enemy of men who might take exception to him being offered employment. No nearer to finding a boss than when he’d first hit London.

Getting drunk every night, fighting, mostly winning
but occasionally losing, beaten bad when he did, sometimes unable to walk for days at a time, pissing blood, spitting blood, blood trickling from the corners of his eyes while he slept, lids caked together when he woke, having to bathe them with warm beer before he could prise them apart. A shite apartment, no hot water, no gas, furniture falling to pieces. It had electricity, cold water, a mattress and some battered old chairs, and that was all. He hated the dive, but he’d been kicked out of his previous apartment and this was where he’d wound up. The flat had been recommended by a guy in the King’s Head. Minimal rent, no hassle, the third floor from the top of one of the Heygate’s ugly blocks. Gawl could have found some place better if he’d looked – London was full of hovels – but he hadn’t bothered. Maybe later this month, or November when the cold hit — he didn’t plan to sit here all winter and freeze.