Chapter 81
‘You don’t think we’re going too far, do you?’ asked Mart Deco, watching Valerie pull the balaclava over her head. ‘I mean, what if there are security cameras and they’ve picked us all up.’
‘There are no security cameras aimed at the house,’ replied Clock Robin. ‘I had a good look round earlier on. I did a little leaflet dropping and cased the joint. Trust me, I can smell CCTV cameras from a thirty-yard range. We’re fine.’
‘What if laddo rings the police?’
‘He won’t ring the police,’ said Valerie, pulling on enormous black padded gloves that gave the impression her hands were like bunches of overripe bananas. ‘He’ll be too scared to watch re-runs of The Bill when we’ve finished with him.’
‘We aren’t actually going to do anything to him though, are we?’ asked Mart, looking concerned.
Valerie’s hands went to her waist, which looked anything but slender now in the oversized donkey jacket.
‘What do you think we are, Mart? Animals?’
‘No, don’t be daft. It’s just that we all look really . . . serious,’ he replied. Despite being the size of a brick shithouse with a Grant Mitchell haircut and having a face that looked as if someone had been chopping wood on it, Mrs Deco had drawn some teardrop ‘prison tatts’ on his cheek and a ‘cuthere’ line round his neck with a Sharpie to make him look hard. ‘Even you, Valerie.’ And that was before Long John handed her the two-foot-long bolt cutters.
‘Well, Stephen Brookland isn’t going to be intimidated by a woman,’ she laughed by way of a reply. ‘But he will be by someone in a balaclava holding something that could have him singing soprano with a single clip.’ She opened the cutters and snapped them shut again in Mart’s face. He and the other four men at his side all closed their legs simultaneously.
‘We aren’t going to stop him making Bonnie’s life an absolute misery if we turn up and wag our fingers at him, darling. Do you want Bonnie looking over her shoulder for the rest of her life? She needs us, Mart. Some people will not see reason and the only way to deal with the Stephen Brooklands of this world is to give them a short sharp shock that they won’t forget in a hurry.’
‘We have to make it look convincing, Mart,’ added Long John. He knew that his friend was a sensitive soul and he’d had a rough year and even though he had been the first to stick up his hand and volunteer his services, he was a law-abiding citizen at heart. ‘Stephen Brookland is a bully and like all bullies, he will be a chuffing big coward as well. Valerie is right. This is the only kind of thing that sort listen to.’
‘If you want to stay in the van, Mart, none of us will hold it against you,’ said Valerie softly. Her voice and sadistic appearance were wildly at odds with each other.
Mart pursed his lips and nodded decisively. ‘No, I’m doing it for Bonnie as I said I would. And for Brian.’ He looked up at the starry sky. ‘I owe Bonnie’s dad more favours than I can count.’ He smashed his gloves together like a superhero. ‘Come on, guys. Let’s do this thing.’
*
Stephen Brookland had taken some Night Nurse. He didn’t have a cold but it was guaranteed to knock him out because he’d hardly had any sleep at all in the three nights since he was told the CPS had dropped the case against his wife. His stupid family liaison officer had been as much use as a damp match, telling him to forget it and move on. And that idiot solicitor who had been looking after his wife had more or less threatened him with police action. Him – the innocent party in all this. He had felt sure the newspapers would be interested in the story of his mother’s murder, but no one had replied to his emails. The world had gone mad, no wonder he was suffering from insomnia.
He had drifted off to his medically-induced slumber that night weaving plans: Murderer written in red paint across the front of the house where his wife lived in Rainbow Lane. He’d find out how Facebook and Twitter worked and feed her name onto the internet and watch her infamy spread worldwide. How dare she have the effrontery to leave him? His mother’s demise was the perfect evocative vehicle to ride in order to punish his perfidious wife for her abandonment of him.
An urgent ting-a-ling-a-ling-a-ling sound drew him slowly up through the depths of sleep to the surface of consciousness, though confusingly his brain discerned a different pitch to the alert on his alarm clock. He opened his eyes to find a crescent of six people standing around his bed, all carrying torches trained up at their faces to distort their features. In the middle of them all stood a very tall figure, dressed like the others in black clothing, but this one had on a balaclava with three small circles cut out for the eyes and mouth. He, he presumed, was carrying something in his gloved hands, but Stephen couldn’t make out what. The word ‘enforcer’ drifted into his mind and made his eyebrows shoot up his forehead. He turned to the clock on his bedside cabinet. It read two-fifteen.
‘No, you’re not dreaming, Stephen,’ said the figure nearest to him on his left, a very short man who was vaguely familiar.
Stephen’s back snapped upright; he was now certain this was not some sort of hallucination.
‘What the—’
‘Shhh. It’s nighttime,’ said the enormous man on the right. His finger was resting against his lips. The torchlight picked out the tattoos on his face and neck.
‘Who are you?’ said Stephen, in a panic. ‘I haven’t much money. My wallet is in that drawer.’ He pointed to his dressing table. ‘I have a computer on the table over there. I don’t have any iThings or a mobile or expensive equipment such as—’
‘Shuttup a minute, for God’s sake. You’re making my ears bleed,’ said the short man. ‘And you can stop lying as well because we know you’re absolutely minted. I’ve heard you make Richard Branson look like a church mouse.’
‘I . . . I’m not, I . . .’
Stephen’s eyes swept over the forbidding figures and it dawned on him then where he knew these people from. He’d seen them go in and out of the Pot of Gold when he was spying on Bonita. They were antique dealers. Just common antique dealers.
‘He’s worked out who we are,’ said Long John, watching the changes on Stephen’s features slide from panic to confusion and then enlightenment.
‘Get out,’ ground Stephen through his teeth. ‘All of you. Before I call the police.’
‘I don’t think so, Sunshine,’ said Robin, taking one step forward in perfect synch with Valerie. She lifted up the bolt cutters so Stephen could see them clearly.
Stephen’s eyes widened to the size of spaceships.
‘Wha . . . what . . .’
‘You see, Stephen,’ began Long John with calm menace, ‘we don’t like what you’ve been doing to Bonnie.’
‘Bonita?’ said Stephen, his eyebrows dipping in puzzlement. ‘You’re here because of her? Do you know what she did? Well, let me tell—’
‘We all know,’ said Mart. ‘She helped your mum when she needed someone. Unlike you, you gutless bas—’
Stan put his hand on Mart’s arm to quell his rising anger. Mart’s mum had died in February and he was still raw from the pain he’d had to watch her endure.
‘Now, what we can’t understand, Stephen, is why you aren’t getting on with your own life and leaving her be. Because we’re her friends and we care about her,’ said Long John, smiling in the way a crocodile might smile at an antelope before dragging it into the water. ‘So—’
He was interrupted by Stickalampinit talking as if he had cotton wool stuffed in his cheeks and had just got off a plane from New York.
‘We’re here to make you an offer you key-ant refuse.’
The others turned to look at his oddly swollen jawline and realized that he had stuffed cotton wool into his cheeks.
‘It’s less painful if you go with it rather than try to pull back,’ Long John advised.
‘The only poi-sens you’ll be able to talk to are gonna be de fishes,’ said Stickalampinit, obviously enjoying being a mob godfather for the day.
The dealers started to roll up their sleeves in preparation. The tall figure snapped the bolt cutters ominously.
‘Wait a minute,’ said Stantiques, with a contemplative finger placed artfully on his cheek. ‘If we cut off his tongue, he can still write things down, can’t he?’ He made a chopping motion with his right hand against his left wrist.
Stephen squeaked.
‘Good point,’ said Long John. He addressed Stephen. ‘You left or right-handed?’
Before Stephen could answer, Sticka-‘Don Corleone’- lampinit spoke. ‘It don’t make no diff’rence. Take off da left, he’s gonna be able to type with da right. Take off both of da hee-ands and he’s gonna learn how to type wid his feet.’ He pointed at Valerie. ‘Hannibal’s gonna have to take everything aw-f.’
Stephen repeated the tall man’s apparent name at a pitch only sheepdogs could hear properly and Long John bit his lip to stop himself giggling.
‘It’s not his real name, but Hannibal fits him much better if you know what I mean,’ Robin explained to Stephen. ‘He’s been looking forward to a nice tongue sandwich with his Chianti. And now, it seems, he’s going to have a finger buffet too.’
Stephen farted in fear and Mart wafted his hand in front of his face. Long John sat down on the edge of the bed at Stephen’s side and rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
‘Oh Mr Brookland, this is turning out to be a much bigger job than I thought. We’ve only brought bolt-cutters, you see. Would you mind staying here quietly whilst I go and get my full tool kit from the van?’ He smiled a dangerous, humourless smile, his front gold tooth twinkling in the torchlight. Stan and Robin shivered at the sight of it. It would be too easy to believe that Long John wasn’t acting.
‘Please don’t hurt me. I haven’t done anything. I won’t tell anyone. Just take my money and my cufflinks,’ Stephen begged, panicking now and scrabbling around in his brain for bargaining tools. ‘I’ve got some foreign coins in the same drawer . . . and a signed photo of Conway Twitty.’
Stan gave a snort of laughter and tried to make it look like a sneeze. Everyone thought it was a good job Starstruck wasn’t with them.
‘That’s very kind of you, but no thanks,’ said Long John. ‘You see, you can’t buy loyalty to friends, Stephen. Not even with a million pesetas and a scribble from a country and western great.’ He looked at his watch and stood up. ‘I’ll be back in fifteen minutes, boys.’
‘Wait,’ called Stephen, but Long John was gone.
No one spoke for what seemed like ages, then Valerie started tapping the bolt-cutters against her cupped hand with obvious impatience.
‘Once he smells fear, he don’t like waitin’ none,’ Stickalampinit explained Valerie’s actions to Stephen who started wildly shaking his head from side to side like a little boy protesting that it wasn’t he who had drawn on the wallpaper with felt tips.
‘If you go, I won’t call the police, I promise,’ Stephen wailed.
Stan leaned in close to him.
‘Why don’t I believe you, Stephen?’
‘I’ll swear on a Bible. There’s one in my wardrobe. It was my mother’s.’
‘You would ha’ sworn on da Bible in coor-t, Mr Brooklyn, and lied your freakin’ head orf,’ said Stickalampinit, so stuck in Americanisms, they even transferred to Stephen’s name. ‘So maybe you can see why we ain’t taking dat as no reek-o-mendation.’
A moment of silence ensued so still that they all heard Stephen’s gulp.
‘Do you know what a hydra is, Stephen?’ asked Stan, not waiting for an answer before continuing. ‘It’s a mythical being and as soon as you cut off one of its heads, two more grew back in its place.’
Stephen looked totally confused and unsure why the conversation had shifted to Greek mythology.
‘We are the hydra,’ said Stantiques, spreading his arms wide. ‘You can have us all arrested, but for every one of us you report, two more dealers will come and pay you a visit.’
‘And we are de nice guys,’ added Stickalampinit. ‘The others –’ he lifted and dropped his shoulders regretfully ‘– they’re da ones that make us look like liddle pussy-kets. Even Hannibal don’t like to hang around wid dem.’
‘I promise, I won’t ring the police. You have my word.’ Stephen smiled hopefully just as Mart’s mobile rang in his pocket. He got it out and spoke into it. ‘Yes, everything’s fine. Oh you’ve got the tool-box and you’re on your way back, that was quick. Okay, see you in five minutes, Killer.’ Mart was rather proud of thinking up that little touch. He clicked off his phone, slipped it back in his pocket and addressed the ‘hydra’. ‘He’s got the tool-box, he’s on his way back and he’ll be here in five minutes.’
‘I won’t say a word,’ Stephen said again. His voice had more vibrato than Paul Potts singing ‘Nessun Dorma’.
‘I know you won’t,’ Stan said, suddenly serious. ‘And I know you won’t because we will hear about it if you do. The antiques world is a close-knit community, Stephen, and we look after our own. We have eyes and ears everywhere.’ He nodded a signal to Mart, who crossed to the window and snatched open the curtains. Something small was hovering outside with a light on the front. ‘We’ve had drones tailing you for weeks. We’ve been watching you watching Bonnie. We know what shopping you buy, where you have your hair cut, even what top-shelf magazines you buy from the newsagent.’
‘I beg your pardon,’ protested Stephen. ‘I do not buy—’
‘Thing is, as you know, if you throw a bit of mud around, it sticks. Lots of people believe lies, Stephen. That’s what you are relying on, isn’t it? You can’t get your day in court, so you’re going to punish Bonnie by painting her as black as your soul, aren’t you?’
From what Bonnie had told Valerie about Stephen, she suspected what his modus operandi might be. From the speed at which the blood drained from Stephen’s face, she’d hit that nail squarely on the head.
Mart pulled the curtains shut again.
‘So if you want to keep everything intact, Stephen, I think it would be wise of you to stay right away from Bonnie, give her what she’s due in the divorce and let your mam lie in peace, don’t you?’ Stephen stared at him, frozen, so Stan repeated the two words at volume. ‘DON’T YOU?’
Stephen wagged his head.
‘For the benefit of the recording, can you please answer that verbally.’
‘Recording?’ asked Stephen.
‘Just ian-ser the question,’ said Marlon Brando, holding his hands out in exasperation.
There was an audible knock on the back door. Stephen jerked.
‘It’s Killer with the tool-box,’ said Stan, running with Mart’s brainwave. ‘Let him in will you, someone?’
‘Yes, I promise. I swear,’ gasped Stephen. ‘I really do, I swear on everything.’
‘That’s the spirit,’ said Stan. He raised two fingers, pointed them at his own eyes and then at Stephen. ‘As Sting once said, “I’ll be watching you”.’
‘Every move you make,’ added Stickalampinit for good measure.
As they filed silently out of the door the tall figure in black snapped the bolt cutters one last time and Stephen knew he’d have to get up and change his fitted sheet.
The troupe of six silently and sleekly walked down Stephen’s back garden, strode over the low fence and traversed the farmer’s field. It was a moonless, pitch-black night but guided by their downward angled torches and holding on to each other they quickly reached the darkened street where they had parked Stan’s van. They all piled in the back of it, except Valerie who climbed into the front passenger seat. She stripped off the black balaclava and shook out her steel-grey long hair.
‘I think we can safely assume that Bonnie won’t be getting any more trouble from that awful man,’ she said.
Stickalampinit pulled the cotton wool out of his cheeks but strangely his voice remained the same. ‘He ain’t gonna give no one no shit never.’
‘I’ll fly the drone a few times up to his window when I know he’s in,’ said Long John, lifting up his son’s remote control helicopter with a battery-operated LED light ducttaped on the front. ‘Just to make sure he knows the hydra wasn’t making idle threats.’
They laughed and the joyful sound bounced around the van. They felt that, wherever he was now, Brian Sherman would be chuckling with them, touched that his past kindnesses to them all hadn’t been forgotten.