The Evil And The Pure (61 page)

He thought about Sapphire as he ran. Winced
at his thoughtlessness. He should have given Tulip her number, asked the girl to ring her and tell her that Big Sandy had said goodbye. Sapphire would hear about this anyway, but she was worthy of a personal farewell. A regretful oversight. His last. No putting it right now.

Just before the train hit the platform, a bullet struck Big Sandy
’s left thigh. He’d planned to fake a trip and throw himself beneath the wheels, but now there was no need. The force of the bullet knocked him sideways and he fell into the path of the onrushing train. He hung mid-air for what couldn’t have been more than a fraction of a second but which felt longer, flashing back on the life he’d led, the sins he’d committed, his actions of the last few minutes, how and if they’d affect his standing with God.

Then the train smashed into him. Everything stopped. The world disappeared.
His intention made real. A bad man sacrificed so a good girl might live. Big Sandy died messily but quickly and painlessly, wondering in his last moment,
Any chance of redemption?

THE EVIL AND THE PURE

world without end, amen

i

Fast Eddie walked slowly down
the platform to where Big Sandy had been struck by the train. The driver had applied the brakes and the train was coming to a screeching halt along the tracks beyond the station. People on the platform were standing, shocked, slowly graduating towards the scene of the accident, heedless of the four men with guns and the wild, howling hound.

Fast Eddie stopped at the approximate spot where Big Sandy had been hit.
Banknotes were drifting through the air like confetti. Fast Eddie watched the wind playing with them, rising and twirling them high above the platform. A small, romantic part of him thought that the particles might represent Big Sandy’s soul, freed and hovering above the place of his death. The greater, realistic part of him thought,
Fuck!

One of the men with Fast Eddie caught a few of the
notes and scrutinised them gloomily. “Two million pounds,” he muttered. “The Bush’ll go apeshit.”

“Maybe we could
pick up all the notes,” one of the other men deadpanned but nobody laughed.

“Who
shot him?” Fast Eddie asked. No response. He glanced around wryly. “Nobody wants to take the credit?”

“We were all shooting,” one of the men said uneasily. “You too, Eddie. Any one
of us could have hit him.”

“It wasn’t our fault,” the second m
an said. “He was too close to the edge of the platform. If he’d fallen the other way, everything would have been fine.”

“You don’t think the Bush will blame us, do you?” the third asked nervously.

“No,” Fast Eddie sighed. “This was beyond our control. We did what we could. Fate was against us.”

“There’s still the girl
,” one of the men noted.

Fast Eddie’s
gaze slid to the train on platform five. It was just starting to pull out, the driver unaware of what had happened on the adjacent platform, official word not yet circulated. From here he could see Tulip Tyne’s face as she stood by the door of her carriage, staring at them. It would be a simple task to make a phone call, have men waiting at the next station to get on and take her quietly. Deliver her to Dave for questioning, interrogation and execution. He didn’t like it but it was his job. The formula was still unaccounted for. Dave wouldn’t look favourably upon him if he returned and said he’d taken Tulip at her word when she said she’d destroyed the notebook.

Fast Eddie
was reaching glumly for his phone when he stopped and frowned. Who was there to tell Dave about Tulip ripping up the formula? Of the men who’d heard her confess, only he remained. The truth could be whatever he decided to make it.

“Forget the girl,” Fast Eddie said, turning for the exit, raising the collar of his coat, only now thinking about
CCTV and witnesses. The Bush had contacts at the station. The security tapes would go missing or be erased, but the witnesses might cause some problems for Fast Eddie and the others on the platform. A long holiday beckoned, perhaps further than Margate this time. Fast Eddie wouldn’t complain. He was tired of London.

“
What about the formula?” the man who’d mentioned Tulip asked.

Fast Eddie steeled himself for the lie. “She gave it to us. It was in the bag with
the money. It’s lost.”

T
he man shook his head bitterly then followed Fast Eddie from the platform, the others close behind, dragging the hound, which was howling miserably after the departing train and the rapidly evaporating scent of its prey.

ii

Tulip found a seat in a row halfway down the carriage – the other three passengers eyed her warily but kept their distance
and said nothing – and sat next to the window, staring out at the darkness of the city, studying her reflection in the glass, thinking about Big Sandy, crying and smiling at the same time as she considered the magnitude of his sacrifice. She was sure it wouldn’t go unrewarded, that whatever Big Sandy’s previous sins, God would show compassion for a man who had given his life for a girl he owed no actual allegiance to.

She was hot inside the carriage and would have liked to tak
e her coat off, but didn’t dare, afraid the bulges of the rolls of money would show. In two minds what to do with the cash. On the one hand it was blood money – many men had died for it – and her first impulse was to get rid of it, give it to charity, wash her hands clean of the whole dirty affair. But Big Sandy had given the money to her at the very end. He’d wanted her to have it, not just for herself but for her baby. To give it away would be a betrayal of his final act of kindness. She’d think about it in more depth later, but she was pretty sure she’d settle on a compromise, keep enough to provide for herself and her child – at least for the next few difficult years – and donate the rest to a good cause.

She
slid a hand beneath her coat, up under her jumper and the rolls of money, and rubbed her stomach, thinking about the foetus, giggling softly as she realised she now had a name for her unborn baby. Alexander if it was a boy, Alexandra if it was a girl, but as far as everyday use went, regardless of its gender,
Sandy
. A reminder – not that she’d need any – and a tribute.

Frightened as she looked ahead,
sixteen years old, a single mother, alone in the world. It wouldn’t be easy, no matter how much of the money she kept. But she’d pull through, of that she was certain. She had endured more than most girls her age and hadn’t been crushed or consumed. The world could surely throw no worse at her than it had these past couple of years.

Despite her confidence in herself, residues of fear remained. So, as the train chugged t
owards the suburbs of London, Tulip did what she always did when she was afraid, anxious or unsure — she prayed. At first, closing her eyes and crossing herself, she prayed only for good luck and safe passage. Then, as the train picked up speed and she left the nightmares further behind, her thoughts turned to Big Sandy and she asked God to show mercy and accept the dead giant’s tarnished soul. After that she prayed for Kevin, her poor, sick brother. He’d hurt her more than he probably ever knew but the sickness wasn’t his fault and she prayed to God to understand that and forgive. And then, relaxing back into her seat, feeling sleepy from the heat and exhaustion, she extended her prayers to include the others who had died in the name of the awful drug and cursed money, pitiful Fr Sebastian, the greedy dreamer Clint Smith, prisoner of genius Tony Phials, even the brutish and truly wretched Gawl McCaskey. Figuring, as she rode her train to freedom, hovering on the verge of sleep and humbly intervening with God on their behalf,
If
I
don’t pray for their lost, damned souls, who will?

THE    END

w
ritten between 25
th
april 2001 and 10
th
august 2013