The Evil And The Pure (27 page)

Big Sandy hoped it could be like that forever. He knew Megan didn’t love him but she was satisfied with him. He provided for them, was gentle with her, treated her with respect. Hopeful that she would stay, that he could be there all through Amelie’s childhood, a loving, attentive father. And maybe it would have worked out that way if not for Jackie Greaves.

Jackie Greaves one of the Bush’s rivals. A big, brutal man, almost as big and brutal as Big Sandy. N
icknamed after the Spurs legend, Jimmy Greaves, because his old man once played in the same team as him, before Greaves went pro. Jackie Sr never stopped talking about that, which earned him the nickname, which Jackie Jr inherited. Jackie and the Bush had been friends when they were younger, went to Spurs games together if the Bush’s grandfather was absent. But both men were determined to rule the roost when they got older. They’d been sparring for years.

Jackie decided to make a power play. Tried to wipe out the Bush and his closest allies in one fell sweep. Big Sandy one of the names on their list.
A team hit him at home in the dead of night, while others were carrying out similar attacks across London. Word leaked just before the raids commenced. Hasty calls to anyone in the firing line. Most of the targets fled their homes or defended them if they had weapons and were confident. The Bush tried to call Big Sandy but Megan took the phone off the hook every night before going to bed, in case it woke Amelie.

Three men broke into their flat. Tried to pick the lock, failed, so smashed in a window. That woke Big Sandy. He reacted s
wiftly. Tackled them in the living room. They had guns, but it was dark and Big Sandy knew the room, didn’t need the light, grappled with them, disarmed them, lashed into them.

Megan saw a lot of it, screaming, holding Amelie in her arms, trying to get past them. Big Sandy roared at her to stay where she was. Disabled the intruders. Megan saw blood. One man’s head caved in. One man’s throat slashed open. Ran while Big Sandy was moving in to finish off the third. She never returned.

Of course she’d known that Big Sandy worked for Dave Bushinsky. She wasn’t naive. She accepted the manner of his business. But she hadn’t figured on it spilling into their home life. Never assumed it could get that dirty, that bloody. Determined never to expose herself or her child to it again.

When Jackie Greaves had been taken care of,
Big Sandy tried to mend fences, but didn’t beg her to come back. He understood why she had run, why she wanted nothing to do with him now. In a way he had anticipated this all along, certain that a man with his history could never enjoy a normal life, sure that the good times would be ripped away from him. In his own mind he didn’t deserve happiness, so he didn’t complain when Megan vowed to sic the police on him if he ever came near her and their baby again.

Big Sandy let her flee London but kept tabs on her. When she stopped running, he sent word that he would respect her privacy, but asked if he could contribute financially, to ensure that Amelie wanted for nothing. Megan rebuffed him at first, but it was hard bringing up a daughter by herself, so in the end she accepted his offer of help. She thought he would try to use it as a wedge to force himself back into their lives, but he never did.

He had kept sending money in the years since, and had built up a hefty trust fund for Amelie with the help of Julius Scott. But he’d had no further contact with his one-time girlfriend or the daughter he loved. He’d regularly staked them out in the early years, wanting to watch over them, to see his girl growing up. But he always came away feeling morose, so in time he stopped doing even that.

He wasn’t sure why he had decided to check on them now, after such a long absence. Maybe it was just that he had time on his hands and was bored. But Big Sandy thought there was more to it. His recent interactions with
unfortunate girls – Shula Schimmel and Tulip Tyne – had set him thinking about Amelie, who was a bit younger than either of those but in the same teenage territory. He’d started wondering if there might be a Larry Drake or Kevin Tyne lurking in the shadows of Amelie’s life. According to the reports he still received, there wasn’t, but sometimes you saw something in a person’s eyes that you couldn’t see in a photo. Sometimes a scared look told you more than an investigator ever could.

So here he was, in the back of a van, waiting.
Amelie should be home from school soon. She was old enough to let herself in and out of the house. Hastings was a quiet town, Megan felt safe there and Amelie was a sensible girl. She’d been letting her daughter walk to and from school by herself for a couple of years.

A schoolgirl came sloping along, dragging a bag. Big Sandy leant forward, but saw almost immediately that it wasn’t Amelie, too pale, the wrong colour hair. He
stayed leaning forward, figuring if one kid had passed, it wouldn’t be long until more came his way. But for ten minutes he saw no one. He started to think about after-school activities. Maybe Amelie had stayed on for music lessons or sports. He checked his watch. Megan due home in half an hour, maybe a little more. He’d leave before she came back, in case she got curious about the van parked so closer to their house. Megan was sharp, always had been.

As he was resigning himself to a wasted journey, Amelie appeared. She was with another girl and a boy. Chatting and laughing. Big Sandy stared. She was taller than he’d expected. She got that from him. Not a stunner, but a nice-looking girl. She got her looks from her mother.

The kids stopped close to the van. Big Sandy could hear them talking about school and homework and what they were going to watch on the telly that night. Then the boy reached across, grabbed the back of Amelie’s bra and snapped it. She yelled at him and threw a punch at his head, but she was laughing. The boy and the other girl laughed too and carried on. Amelie waved after them, smiling. Then she turned her back on her unseen father and walked up the path to her house.

Big Sandy watched until she closed the door. Then he leant back and sighed. Unknown to himself, he was smiling, and the smile was the same as the girl’s. She’d looked happy.
The reports had indicated as much, but he was glad he’d come. He could rest easier after seeing her. Probably wouldn’t feel the need to check on her again in person for a long time after this.

He frowned as he thought about the boy, the way he’d snapped her bra. Almost certainly harmless fun, but he’d ask the investigator to keep an eye on things, dig into the boy’s background, make sure he wasn’t a threat. Over the top, but Big Sandy didn’t care, not whe
n his little girl was involved.

One last look at the house, then Big Sandy moved up front and set off on the drive back to Margate, thoughtful as he went, sad but happy at the same time.

Four
days later, having breakfast in a pub, the best thing about Margate in November. Good grub but Fast Eddie was sour and barely tasted the food. Nothing to do with Big Sandy’s mystery trip. His Spaniard had hung about longer than expected. Fast Eddie had started to consider the pair of them an item. Thinking about taking her back to London with him. Then, earlier in the week, she did a runner, took his wallet, rings and watch while he was showering. Fast Eddie was all for setting off after her and strangling her. Big Sandy talked him out of it — they were here to keep a low profile, all was fair in love and war, etc. Secretly chuckling at Fast Eddie’s fall from grace but he kept a straight face.

Big Sandy’s mobile r
ang as they were returning to their hotel. He checked the incoming number in the corridor, then opened the door of their room and answered as he stepped in, “Yeah?” Listened carefully. “Yeah.” Pause. “Thanks.” End of call.

Fast Eddie stared at him hopefully.
Big Sandy looked back blankly, then burst into a rare open grin. “We’re going home.”

Fast Eddie
punched the air. “Thank fuck.”

Big Sandy smiled and packed, thinking
sadly of Amelie and how much he missed her, but also of Sapphire and how sweet it would be to seek the solace of her embrace once again.

TWENTY-SIX

Clint at his lowest ever.
Glumly surfing the Tube, making hardly any sales, too despondent to care. He’d blown it. Stepped in with the big boys — first round knockout. Dreams blown. America blown. The chance to whisk Shula away into the sunset blown. Only comfort, there had been no comebacks from cousin Dave, so Phials mustn’t have reported him and the guards must have kept word of the fuckaroo to themselves.

Clint disgusted.
How had he made such a pig’s ear of it? Thought Phials would be easy to play, get him high, blow him wide. Junkies by nature self-destructive. Phials should have spilled his secrets and told Clint everything. But he didn’t.

Clint hadn’t been back to the lab. No contact with Phials or the Tynes. Last sigh
t of the brother and sister, they were fleeing up the Walworth Road, Kevin screaming bloody murder, never phone them again, they were through with Clint fucking Smith, long may he roast in the fires of Hell. So he’d lost the Tynes as well as Phials, on the back of losing Larry Drake. All his decent contacts wiped clean in the space of a few numbing weeks. Imagining Dave’s contempt when he found out. Any plans to bump Clint up the ladder aborted. Might even cut him out of the organisation entirely, Clint too much of a liability. Dole queue or a dead end job. A nobody for life. No way of enticing Shula or striking out for the States.

The t
rain came to a stop. Clint took no notice of the station name. Didn’t even know what line he was on. Three boys got on his carriage, late teens, goths. Sat close to Clint. Talk of music, girls, movies, beer. Clint leant across. “You guys want to score?” Pulling the zipper of his jacket down, showing them the top of a baggie sticking out of an inner pocket. The goths stared hard at Clint, suspicious. “It’s OK,” he assured them. “Good shit, good price. I can let you have –”

“Fuck off,” one of the goths snarled.

Clint withdrew without argument. Not sure what he’d said wrong or why they didn’t trust him. Par for the current course. Couldn’t even get the basics right any more, blowing the bread and butter deals. If this kept up he wouldn’t be able to make this month’s rent. He’d have to dip into his savings or ask cousin Dave for a handout. Determined it wouldn’t come to that — he’d quit the apartment and skip London before degrading himself to that extent.

Clint stumbled out of the carriage at the next stop, feeling the eyes of the three goths hot on his back. Listlessly shuffled along with the crowd, wandered the station until he came to another line, waited for a train, got on, sat down and brooded, waiting for clients to magically appear and give him loads of money, knowing it didn’t work that way, unable to bring himself to care.

Close behind Clint in the station — Gawl McCaskey. Sometimes so near he could hear Clint breathe. He’d been following the demoralised dealer everywhere since the mysterious night at the garage, and he was the reason the goths had been wary. They’d seen the bulky, unkempt, dangerous-looking man hovering a few seats along from Clint, made the connection between the pair, wary of it, fearing some kind of trap. Clint would have known he was being followed any other time – Gawl going to no pains to disguise his presence – but his depression was all-consuming, his senses turned inward in self-pity, seeing nothing but the scraps of his future drifting past.

TWENTY-SEVEN

Kevin still seething about the Smith/Phials fuck-up. He knew deep down it was his own fault for agreeing to sneak in the drugs and letting Clint stay while they got it on with Phials, but he couldn’t admit that. Laid all the blame at Clint’s doorstep, raged about him to Tulip, breakfast, lunch, dinner, as they watched TV, Tulip listening without interest, tired of the tirade.

They’d had appointments planned for Saturday and Sunday. Kevin cancelled them
, partly because of his hasty promise to God as they’d fled the lab, but mostly because he was too agitated to focus on sex. Spending a quiet weekend with Tulip, their first free weekend in a long while, enjoying the peace, rage gradually abating, going on long walks together, checking out the London Eye on Saturday evening and Sunday morning, Tulip contrasting the night and day crowds. A movie up Leicester Square after Sunday lunch, mingling with the tourists, strolling around Soho and Covent Garden. The mood spoilt only when Kevin started in on another Clint Smith hate rant.

Tulip
much more relaxed when there were no appointments looming, clutching Kevin warmly as they walked, telling him jokes, discussing his work and his alternatives if he quit. A different girl this weekend —
normal
. Kevin loved her this way. He wanted her to be like this all the time. Considered putting the sex behind them forever, honouring his promise to God. Imagining Tulip’s face if he told her there’d be no more appointments, the love she’d shower on him, the joy and happiness they’d share. Almost believing he could go without the voyeurism. Almost telling her the nightmares were over.