The Evil And The Pure (9 page)

“Can’t I just tell you?”

“That’s not the way we do it. If ye tell me and I’m caught, I can’t shop ye t’ the police t’ get a reduced sentence — it’d be my word against yours, and we both know which way that’d go. But if ye write it out nice and clear…”

“You’re an evil man,
McCaskey,” Fr Sebastian said bitterly.

“Aye, b
ut I don’t pretend t’ be anything else. And as bad as I am, I don’t fuck children.” The priest flinched. “Now gi’e me the fucking address.”

Fr Sebastian
sighed, asked God for forgiveness, then produced a pen and paper and started to write.

Gawl didn’t study the scrap of paper until he was on the Tube, surrounded by strangers, invisible in the crush. Unfolded it casually and checked the address. North London wasn’t his usual territory. Not sure whether he should case the house or hit it straight. He tucked the paper away, undecided, figuring he’d make the call when he got there.

Gawl c
ould have taken the Northern line direct from the Elephant & Castle to Angel, but he had a social call to make first, fishing for connections, so he took the Bakerloo line to Picadilly Circus then walked to the League of Victoria, where he stood outside the lobby, gazing in at the receptionist and pair of guards, before crossing the road to shelter in the doorway of the building opposite. He watched guests arriving and leaving, killed time by trying to guess which were there for the Bush’s party and which were regular members. Enviously eyeing the women in their fine dresses, taking the measure of the men with them — strong, determined, resourceful. Men Gawl respected and feared. Men he wanted to work for. Knowing he was too old, too common, too blunt to ever be part of the elite inner circle, content if he could hover at the edges and be thrown a few scraps to keep him sweet in his old age.

He saw Big Sandy
enter and depart. Didn’t know much about the giant, except he was Dave Bushinsky’s strong right arm, did the Bush’s dirty work for him, the sort of work Gawl could do if he had the backing of a boss like Bushinsky. All his life he’d been in search of a true master. He’d worked for many violent, powerful men in many cities – Glasgow, London, Berlin, Melbourne and Sydney during his Australian years – but always short-term, never taken into their confidence, always on the outskirts, expendable, unprotected.

For a long time that had been enough – he liked to boast that he was slave to no man – but secretly he’d always envied the likes of Big Sandy
, Fast Eddie Price, Eyes Burton. They were part of a crew, they didn’t have to watch their backs every minute, always a lawyer on hand to bail them out of trouble and smooth things over with the police.

And now Gawl was getting old, slowing down, vulnerable. Still a tough son of a bitch, t
ear apart any fucker in London if he had a mind to — but for how much longer? What when his fifties became his sixties and his hands shook and his legs didn’t always support him and young wolves sensed his weakness and closed in on him? He needed a boss who would shelter him. The only alternative was a big score to see him through his twilight years, but
big scores
were the province of crime thrillers. Men like Gawl McCaskey didn’t rob a bank and see out their days in style. If they were lucky they earned enough to scrape by and found a safe haven where they could grow old quietly and die of natural causes. Most were denied even that, preyed upon by jackals and vultures, picked clean, left to rot in gutters and doss-houses.

Gawl
would rather die than end up like that, begging for change, sleeping rough, shat upon by the world and all those in it. But he hoped to avoid death — his plan was to get in with the Bush or some other well-placed crook, work hard, earn the respect of his boss, stash away enough cash over the next decade to pay for a room in a retirement home. He’d been sniffing around since returning to London, but no luck yet. Had a good feeling about the Bush. He knew Eyes Burton, one of the Bush’s bodyguards, and thought that maybe Eyes could get him in.

Waiting patiently.
Eyes was a chain-smoker, sixty a day. It was only a matter of time before he slipped out for a puff. On cue — the door of the club opened and Eyes slipped out, lighting up as soon as his feet hit the pavement. Gawl let him smoke the first fag and light up a second before pursuing him, calling as he crossed the road, “Hey, Eyes, those fuckers’ll kill ye.”

Eyes stared hard at Gawl,
impossible to read since he always looked the same — pissed-off. “Gawl,” he muttered neutrally, dragging on his fag.

Gawl pulled up beside Eyes Burton and smiled his warmest. “Good party?”

Eyes shrugged. “What I’ve seen of it.”

“I expected an invitation. I’m disappointed.”

Eyes smiled thinly. “Must have got lost in the post.”

Gawl
was nervous, trying not to look it. “How’s the Bush?”

“Mr Bushinsky to you,” Eyes said.

Gawl’s smile slipped but he ploughed ahead. “Have ye told him about me?”

“I’ve mentioned you.” Eyes
sniffed. “He made enquiries. Heard bad things from Glasgow.”

“Ye cannae trust the fucking Scots,” Gawl joked, heart sinking, wondering how much those bastards had told the Bush, if he’d have to move on again.

“You’re not popular up there. You didn’t tell me.”

“Nobody talks about th
eir bad shit unless they have t’,” Gawl said quietly. “If ye’d asked, I’d’ve told. I never lied.”

Eyes nodded. “But you made me look bad by not mentioning it.”

Gawl scowled at his feet. “So no chance of a fucking job?”

Eyes
puffed deep and drew the moment out. “It’s a bad time. Dave’s talking of going legit. Even if the reports hadn’t been negative, I doubt he’d have found a place for you. He’s not looking for trouble right now.”

Gawl nodded sourly. “So it’s thanks, Mr McCaskey
, but fuck off.”

“Basically.” Eyes stubbed out the cigarette and turned back towards the club. “My advice
— hang in there. Make yourself busy. Prove you’re not the crazy fuck that the Glaswegians claim. If things change, I might be able to push some work your way.”

“Thanks.” Gawl offered his hand
and Eyes shook it. “Stay in touch?”

“Sure,” Eyes said
and headed back into the club, leaving Gawl to glare at the wall, hands clenched into fists.

Fucker! Jewish prick! Fuck Dave Bushinsky and his scum-fucked stooges!
Gawl didn’t need them, bigger sharks in the sea, the Bush a fucking nancy. Trying to go legit? Fuck that. Gawl was better off clear of the fool. This wasn’t the first time he’d seen this happen. It never worked. Bushinsky would get the brush-off from the legit world, same as all the others who’d tried to clean up their act. Let him come crawling to Gawl when the suits gave him the big fuck-off. Gawl would tell him to go fuck himself, spit on him as he said it.

Gawl s
tormed away, cursing Bushinsky, Eyes Burton and their kind. Marched to the Tube station, barging past a group of teenagers at the entrance, knocking them aside, ignoring their cries and shouts, down beneath the ground where monstrous steel slugs burrowed through the earth. North to Angel, fuming all the way. Back on the streets, face dark with hatred, fishing in his pocket for the address, not sure of his direction, getting lost, backtracking, rage increasing as he got frustrated, Gawl deliberately working up a head of vengeful steam, feeding on his fury.

Eventually he found it, a small house as the priest had said, a light in one of the rear ground rooms, houses on either side both dark downstairs. Gawl checked his watch
— nearly twenty past eleven. The old bitch could be in bed, the light just to scare off burglars. He stood on the doorstep uncertainly. Then he saw a moving shadow inside — she was awake. Steeling himself, he knocked brazenly. A pause. Then footsteps, hesitant, the old bitch rightfully wary. She switched on the light in the hall and called to him shakily without opening the door, “Yes?”

Gawl mask
ed his strong Scottish accent. “Mrs Janet Adams?”

“Yes.”

“Police, ma’am. One of your neighbours said they saw someone loitering behind your house. They asked us to check that you were all right.”

“Loitering?” She sounded confused.

“Is your back door secure, ma’am? Your windows?”

“Yes, I think so
.”

“It’s probably nothing, but we
’d like t’ check, if that’s OK with you.”

“Of course, officer.
Do you need to come in?” Guarded, suspicious.

“No
, ma’am, I’ll go around the side. I don’t want t’ disturb you any more than necessary. I just wanted to warn you, in case you heard me back there and got scared.”

“Don’t be silly,
” she chuckled, guard dropping, opening the door. “Come on through, it’s much quicker and –”

Gawl didn’t wait for the door to open all the way. Barged in, knock
ed her over, grabbed the door and shut it swiftly, careful not to let it bang. Janet Adams on the floor, frizzy grey hair, red dressing gown, furry white slippers, gasping, shaking, too shocked to scream. Gawl crouched over her and snarled, “Keep yer fucking trap shut and ye won’t be hurt.” Her eyes round, glassy. He grabbed her shoulders and shook hard. “I don’t want t’ hurt ye. I’m just here for the money. But I’ll kill ye if ye fuck wi’ me.”

“I… I… I…”

Gawl kissed her roughly. She stared at him, amazed, when he broke the kiss — but no longer shaking, momentarily too astonished to be afraid. “That was t’ calm ye down,” he chuckled, wiping his lips on the back of his hand. “Ye needn’t think this is yer lucky night — I’m not into saggy auld cunts.”

Her features stiffened
indignantly. Gawl’s words calculated to reduce the threat — an angry victim was easier to control than a frightened one. Now that she was thinking straight, she’d realise that the sooner she gave him what he wanted, the sooner she could be rid of him.

“What do you want?” she hissed.

“Money if ye have any, jewellery or anything else that I can sell.”

“I don’t have anything. I’m a widow. You should –”

Gawl slapped her, just hard enough to sting. She cried out softly and covered her cheek with her hands. Gawl pointed a finger at her. “If ye fuck wi’ me, missus, ye’ll regret it.”

“You shouldn’t have done that,” she sobbed. “You should never hit a woman.”

“I’ll do more than hit ye if ye piss me off. Now, what’s downstairs that I can sell?” She didn’t answer. He prodded her face with his finger, forcing another thin cry. “Last chance t’ cooperate.”

She stared at his eyes. Saw his intent. Nodded weakly. “The drawing room… photographs… silver frames. Some small trophies. Nothing valuable.”

“We’ll have a look all the same,” Gawl grunted, picking her up and shoving her forward. “Which door?”

“This one,” the old woman said, grasping the handle to steady herself, shaking, sobbing, but not cracking. Opened the door and reached towards the light switch.

“Not so fast, Annie Oakley.” Gawl pulled her back, checking to make sure the curtains were drawn, then turned on the light himself. He pulled her into the room, pushed her at a chair, made a quick appraisal of the goods on display. As the old bitch had led him to believe, photo frames and trophies, nothing worth taking. Didn’t want to leave empty handed though — had to drive home the point that this was a burglary, keep her cowed. He found a nice lighter on the mantelpiece over the fireplace. Worth a few quid. He pocketed it and turned on Janet Adams, who was still rubbing her slapped cheek, staring at him like he was a monster. Walked past her, not letting her fix on his face too closely, and muttered, “Upstairs.”

Janet
followed the intruder out into the corridor. Her eyes fixed longingly on the telephone as they passed. She wondered if she could reach it, dial for the police and warn them about the man in her house before he could stop her. Played the scene through several times, each time the same unfavourable result. She was too old, too slow, too close to him. Safest bet — do as he said, let him take what he wished, phone the police as soon as he left.

The landing at the top of the stairs.
Three bedrooms, a bathroom and a closet. Gawl kept hold of the old woman and pushed each door open, checking all the rooms, making sure they were alone, taking no chances. Satisfied, he began with the spare rooms, full of photographs of the bitch’s dead husband and two grown-up sons. Nothing of any great value, but he found a lavish pen-knife in one room, some gold medals in the other. Then Janet’s room — payload. Jewellery boxes stacked on the dressing table. Gawl raided them, having first made Janet face the wall so she couldn’t study him at length. Lots of necklaces, rings, bracelets. Good shit, easy to fence. Gawl hummed
We’re in the Money
while he filled his pockets.

Once t
he boxes had been emptied, valuables stashed, cheap junk ignored, Gawl turned his attention to the drawers. The first — a bible, rosary beads, mass cards. Gawl stared at the bible, then at Janet Adams. He grinned bleakly, still stinging from the Bush’s rebuke, needing to make someone feel worse than he felt. He reached for the bible, stopped, half-closed the drawer. Save it for later. Work came first. He searched the other drawers, found loose cash in a purse – less than forty pounds – more rings, a verrrrry nice necklace hidden under a pile of tights in the lowest drawer on the left, the highlight of the lot, should fetch a few hundred.