The Evil And The Pure (2 page)

Tommy
Utah was whistling softly. He stopped near the bottom of the stairs. Big Sandy tensed — had he been seen? Then Tommy yawned and took the last few steps with a soft hop, landing smartly. He half-turned toward the kitchen, smiling, his white teeth startling in a face otherwise almost entirely black.

Big Sandy lunged,
grabbed Tommy Utah’s throat and thrust him against the wall, knocking over a small table loaded with magazines. Tommy got off a squeal. He kicked out wildly and struck Big Sandy’s shin. Big Sandy ignored the pain and pressed Tommy hard into the wall, searching for the vulnerable flesh of Tommy’s throat. Tommy got off a shout – “Fucker!” – then choked as Big Sandy’s fingers tightened.

A sleepy moan overhead made both men pause. “Daddy?” Fear
flooded Tommy Utah’s eyes — but also hope. Big Sandy saw it, saw that Tommy meant to scream and wake his son, hoping it would drive off his attacker.

Big Sandy said softly, “If he sees me, he dies.”

“You… wouldn’t,” Tommy Utah croaked. “Not… a child.”

Big Sandy didn’t answer.
He let his expression say it for him. Tommy Utah stared into his assailant’s cold grey eyes. He gulped and felt the huge, scarred fingers gripping his throat. He started to cry — but quietly.

“Daddy,” came again from upstairs, mumbled this time. Then silence.

Big Sandy’s fingers crushed Tommy Utah’s throat like a cardboard toilet roll. His eyes bulged. He slapped feebly at Big Sandy’s arms and his legs thrashed — Big Sandy leant in, pinning them to the wall with his knees. Moments later Tommy Utah’s eyes clouded over and he went limp. Big Sandy flexed his fingers, then squeezed again, making sure, before gently laying the corpse on the ground, resting Tommy Utah’s limp hands on his stomach, pausing to close the dead man’s eyes, mindful of the wife who’d be coming home in forty minutes give or take.

Big Sandy stepped back
and glanced up the stairs to check that the boy hadn’t woken up and come to find his father.

The boy was
on the landing, rubbing his eyes and yawning.

Big Sandy felt
a sickening tremor ripple through him. He hadn’t expected this. He was sure the boy would sleep through the violence. The Bush hadn’t told him to kill the child if he got in the way. He hadn’t needed to. Big Sandy knew better than to leave behind any witnesses.

Big Sandy quickly moved up the stairs, blocking the child’s view of the corpse. He tried a shaky smile as the boy lowered his arm and stared at him. The boy was clutching a Noddy doll in his other hand.

“Where’s my daddy?” the boy asked.

“Sleeping,” Big Sandy answered without thinking.

“Who are you?” the boy asked.

“I’m his friend,” Big Sandy said with a straight face, taking another three steps, moving in on the blinking child.

The boy stared at Big Sandy. He looked confused but not afraid. Then he said, “Will you read me a story?”

Big Sandy paused. He was within reach of the boy. He knew what he should do. Grab the child, snap his neck, leave
him with his father. It would send out an even stronger message than just killing Tommy Utah — if you fuck with the Bush, we won’t just kill you, we’ll kill your loved ones too. Maybe wait for Sarah Utah to come home and break her neck as well, kinder than leaving her alive to mourn the loss of her son.

But the boy was looking at him hopefully, trustingly. He wanted a story. The worst thing he could imagine was the stranger refusing to read to him. H
e had no idea that this was a monster far worse than any he might have dreamt of hiding under his bed or in his wardrobe.

Big Sandy gulped and said, “Sure, I’ll read you a story. Go to your room. Pick a book. I’ll be right in.”

The boy didn’t smile. He simply went back to his bedroom. Big Sandy wanted to flee but then the boy would come out again, see his dead father and scream. Big Sandy checked his watch. He still had time. Time enough for a short story anyway.

Big Sandy stepped into the boy’s room and found him in bed, holding out a picture book,
Where The Wild Things Are
. Big Sandy wasn’t familiar with it. He’d once had a girl of his own, but she had been taken from him before he’d had a chance to read many books to her. Besides, this didn’t look like a book that a sweet little girl would enjoy.

The boy pointed to a large grey monster
with horns and claws on the cover. “That looks like you,” he giggled.

“Yeah,” Big Sandy
grunted. Then he sat on the edge of the bed, took the book from the boy and started to read.

The boy stared at Big Sandy as he read slowly and carefully in a deep, low voice. His eyelids dropped almost immediately, but kept flickering open until the story was about
two-thirds finished. Then they closed and stay closed.

Big Sandy read another couple of pages, just to be safe. When he was sure that the boy was asleep, he lay the book on the bed, stood and gazed down
at the slumbering child. He thought about taking one of the pillows and smothering the boy, but his hands shook at the mere thought. Big Sandy had done a lot of bad things in his life, and he’d probably do a lot more before he died. But he didn’t want to truly become a horned, clawed monster. Even a man of darkness had to draw the line somewhere. Besides, how much could a five year old describe to the police? A big man came and read him a story. He wouldn’t be able to tell them much more than that.

The Bush wouldn’t like it but he’d understand. If the boy turned out to be some kind of genius who could sketch Big Sandy’s face, there would be consequences and Big Sandy would bear them.
But if the boy was just an ordinary kid, the killer should be in the clear.

Big Sandy
eased his way down the stairs to the back door. He stopped with his hand on the lock, took a hat from a hook – Tommy Utah had a
penchant
for hats – tried it on, checked in a mirror, smiled at the ridiculous sight of the hat looking like a thimble on his immense head. He replaced the hat, opened the door, stepped out, pulled it shut, rolled off his gloves and pocketed them, walked away. He thought of the boy and shivered, then went to report to the Bush.

The party was being held in a gentleman’s club recently opened to members of the fairer sex, a five minute walk from Covent Garden station. Big Sandy wasn’t dressed for the occasion, but two of the Bush’s men were on the doors. They waved him in despite the disapproving glares of the staff. One of the watchmen was Eyes Burton — steeliest eyes Big Sandy had ever seen. Eyes wasn’t a large man, but he could wear most people down with his stare alone.

“Any problems?” Eyes a
sked, handing Big Sandy a tie and helping him into an oversized jacket that the Bush had had the foresight to supply.

“Clean,” Big Sandy said.
He would tell the Bush about the boy, leave it to him to tell the others if he saw fit.

“Wife? Kid?”

“Clean,” Big Sandy said again, pushing past, tugging at the arms of the jacket, slipping on the tie. The tie and jacket didn’t match the jumper and piss-stained trousers. Big Sandy didn’t care.

The party
was confined to two rooms. The other rooms were filled with middle-aged men, grey hair, hand-tailored suits, the scent of expensive aftershave. Those who caught sight of Big Sandy – and he was a hard man to miss – frowned reprovingly but said nothing. They knew who Dave Bushinsky was, the standard of man he employed.

The
atmosphere in the party rooms was distinctly different. Young men and women, flashily dressed. Loud laughter, the chinking of glasses, coke-glassed eyes, talk of horse racing, Formula One, the stock market, money money money. They also stared at Big Sandy as he circled first one room, then the other, in search of the Bush. He didn’t mind. He was used to the attention.

Big Sandy paused a couple times to acknowledge the greetings of those who knew him, but didn’t stop, eager to deliver his report and evacuate the building. Parties weren’t Big Sandy’s scene.

He spotted Lawrence Drake larging it, impressing a group of giggling girls with tales from his pop star days and current work on a TV soap. Drake was a small fish in a very big pool, but he knew how to play to a crowd. He was a regular at the Bush’s parties. Not because he was indebted to or friendly with the Bush — he just knew that he could score high quality coke and women, with no journalists sniffing around.

“The Big S,
” Drake boomed, waving Big Sandy over, shoving one of the girls aside to make room for the giant. Big Sandy reluctantly slotted into the space and smiled tersely at the self-proclaimed star.

“Lawrence. Good to see you.”

“Hey, I told you, it’s Larry. How you been?” Before Big Sandy could answer, Drake had turned to his entourage. “The stories I could tell you about this guy. But hush!” He put a finger to his lips and rolled his eyes. “Walls have ears.”

“Have you seen Mr Bushinsky?” Big Sandy asked politely, wishing Drake would do something to piss the Bush off, so that he could
squeeze him a bit.

“The Bush man?
No, not recently. But have
you
seen his niece?” Drake wolf-whistled. “Sorry ladies, but Shula Schimmel is definitely the belle of this ball.”

“Shula Schim
mel?” Big Sandy repeated.

“
Mrs Bush’s niece,” Drake explained. “Flew in from Switzerland yesterday. This party’s in her honour.”

“I was in Switzerland last year, skiing,” one of the girls remarked.

“Me too,” Drake smirked. “Spent most of the time flat on my back.”

“
On the slopes?”

“In my bed!
”

Big Sandy excused himself and pulled clear of the group. The tie felt tight around his throat. Remembering Tommy Utah, his eyes when Big Sandy threatened to kill his child, the sound of his last wheezing breath, the crackle of the cartilage in his throat as Big Sandy crushed.

Claustrophobia seized Big Sandy but he shook it off and bee-lined for the bar. A double vodka, straight, no ice, tossed back quick. A second, this one to sip, and his hands stopped trembling. The panic attacks had alarmed him the first few times – he’d shook like a leaf, wept in public – but he’d learnt to control them. He was always fine when he killed, detached, professional, cold. The shakes hit after an hour or two. Not every time, but often enough. When they struck, he knew he was in for a long hard night, but by morning he’d be in control of himself again.

A hand on his left shoulder. “How’s the vodka?”

Turning, smiling, relieved. “The best. As usual.”

“Why settle for anything less?” Dave Bushinsky grinned broadly at his
ogre-like henchman and ordered a red wine. The Bush had turned fifty a couple of years earlier but he looked forty. Lean, tanned, jet black hair, alert dark eyes, a casual suit, soft leather shoes, discreet diamond rings and a gold St Christopher dangling from his neck — no matter that he was proud of his Jewish roots, he’d been given the St Christopher by a friend when he was a young man and had worn it ever since.

“Have you met my niece?” the Bush asked, testing the wine, frowning and
handing it back. The barman scurried away to locate a superior vintage.

“No. Heard the party’s for her.”

“Yeah. Alice’s niece. On holiday from Switzerland. First time in London since she was a kid. We’re showing her the sights, introducing her to the right people.”

“Hear she’s a looker.”

“Judge for yourself.” The Bush pointed with a jerk of his head and Big Sandy turned, spotted a young woman in a yellow dress, smiling as she chatted with the Bush’s wife. Alice was a looker herself, but Drake had spoken truthfully — this girl stood out from all the others.

“Stunning,” Big Sandy said.

“Yes.” The Bush raised a finger. “But she’s barely eighteen, so back off.”

“I’ll hold my charms in check,” Big Sandy deadpanned.

“Want to meet her?” the Bush asked.

“Not dressed like this,” Big Sandy said, and the Bush’s smile faded as he recalled where his right hand man had been earlier in the night.

A man in a dark green silk shirt, with swimming eyes, clapped the Bush on the back and congratulated him on the party. The Bush endured his good wishes and smiled thinly until the stoned guest wandered away to bug someone else. The barman arrived with a fresh bottle. This one proved acceptable.

“Take care of business?” the Bush asked softly,
studying the red wine, not looking directly at Big Sandy.

“Yes.”

“Clean?”

“Yes.
But there was a problem. The child saw me.”

The Bush stopped swirling the wine. “Saw you with his father?”

“No. It was after. Before I could leave.”

“What did you do?”

“Put him back to bed. Read him a story.”

The Bush gawped at Big Sandy. “And then?”

“He fell asleep. I left.”

The Bush looked troubled. “If he can ID you…”

“He’s five,” Big Sandy said. “He was half asleep. I don’t think he’ll be able to tell them anything they can pin on me.”