‘A what?’
‘Vosnok. East European death squad. Since the gates opened, they’re unemployed. London attracts the vermin.’
‘Kerrkovian!’
Jordan nodded, said,
‘I trust this is not a police matter?’
‘I’d appreciate that.’
We buried him behind the house. It was hard work, least it was for me. A hangover doesn’t handle well a shovel. Sweat cascaded down my body. Too, I was in my bare feet, and the soil felt like sludge. Jordan dug with an easy rhythm. I said,
‘Looks like you’ve done this before.’
‘Many times.’
I didn’t have the bottle to ask if he meant ‘in this place’. Some things you best let slide. When we’d finished, Jordan asked,
‘Will you say words for him?’
Part of me wanted to shout — ‘Good riddance!’ I nodded and said,
‘Goodbye... Billy.’
It seemed enough for Jordan. He headed to the house. I followed. In the kitchen I trailed muddy prints and said,
‘Sorry.’
He produced some of his sachets of powder and began to mix that healing elixir. My mind went into free fall.
In the joint, you never gave or received favours. It was fraught with peril. I broke that rule only once. For a guy named Craig. I covered his back when he’d lost focus. After, most days he’d chow down with me. Even offered me his dessert.
His brother was a cop. Not just any filth but a renowned detective who’d nicked more child abusers than Andrew Vachss. But finally, the abyss looked back into him. Drunk one night, he’d found himself cruising for a child. Snapping out of it, he’d gone immediately home and shot himself. Only Craig knew the reason for the suicide. To the cops, he remained a hero and had simply ‘eaten his gun.’ Then Craig had looked up from his grub and made full eye contact. Convicts never did that unless they’d a knife or pipe to back it up. He said,
‘The point of this story is I avoid zeal. When the gangs go after a chicken-hawk here, I abstain.’
I got the point. A frenzy had been building in the prison for some days. It usually culminated in a hunt for a sex offender.
I said,
‘I hadn’t planned on joining the party.’
Holding my gaze, he said,
‘Self-righteousness is very infectious. People get swept along.’
I didn’t argue. He was repaying his debt.
Jordan nudged me, handed over a mug, said,
‘Drink.’
I did.
Jeez, was that the business. Everything near sang, my system felt almost young. He said,
‘What will you do about this Kerrkovian?’
‘Find him.’
‘Yes.’
I hesitated, but he was prepared to wait. I said,
‘Then I’ll kill him.’
‘You’ll require assistance.’
‘It’s not your fight.’
He folded his arms, said,
‘A man comes onto my land, puts a corpse outside my window and you think I’ll turn the other cheek?’
‘Who’ll mind the actress if we’re both gone?’
‘I’ll make provisions.’
I stood up, said,
‘Okay... we’ll go hunting.’
‘Have you a weapon?’
‘I do... do you?’
He gave me a smile. Humour never entered into it.
I put on the radio to ease me into sleep. Dire Straits were doing their riff, the line about Dixie, laden with threat. I hoped Kerr-fuckin-kovian was tuned.
The next day, Jordan ran a test. Using my car. He said,
‘I want you to approach the car with suspicion, the back seat you check carefully.’
I did. Tried the door but it wouldn’t open. Looked in the window. All I could see was a crumpled blanket on the floor and empty seats. I tapped on the window, the blanket moved and Jordan unfolded, emerged. I asked,
‘How can you make yourself so small?’
He gave a rueful smile, said,
‘Years of servitude.’
I asked the obvious.
‘How come the door won’t open?’
‘It’s an old car, only the front doors open.’
‘He’ll believe that?’
‘He better.’
It took us three nights to track him. We’d trawled Clapham, Streatham, Stockwell, Kennington and finally got him at a club in Brixton. I’d brought the Glock. I didn’t know what Jordan was packing but I hoped it was heavy. We parked a ways up the road from the club Kerrkovian had entered.
Jordan said,
‘Give me the gun.’
‘What?’
‘He’ll frisk you.’
‘Oh.’
‘I won’t wish you luck as these matters require only timing and nerve.’
‘I’ll settle for luck.’
As I got out, I said,
‘See you.’
‘No, you won’t.’
The bouncer at the door was a grief merchant and intended to give me large, said,
‘Members only.’
‘How much?’
He gave me the calculating look, went with it, said,
‘Twenty-five.’
I peeled off the notes, asked,
‘Don’t I get a card or nuttin?’
‘I’ll remember you.’
‘Gee, that’s reassuring.’
I went in. The place was jammed. A Brixton brew of
Dreads
Goths
Transvestites
Paddies
Minor villains
Bent cops
I spotted Kerrkovian sitting at a corner table with the punk. I thought — ‘Shit.’
Moved to them, said,
‘Lads.’
The punk gave a smirk, said,
‘Mitchell.’
Kerrkovian was wearing a black suit and looked like a badly fucked Bryan Ferry. He said,
‘I hear many things about you.’
His accent was pseudo-American. Like he’d watched all the very worst B movies. He had rotten teeth — Eastern Europe not having the best dental plan. He stood up, asked,
‘I buy you a brewski.’
‘Not right now. I hear you’ve been looking for me.’
‘You got it buddy.’
’Well my car is outside, let’s take a ride.’
The punk said,
‘Get real.’
I looked at Kerrkovian, said,
‘You wouldn’t be afraid to travel with me, would you?’
He smiled, the full frontal of gangrenous molars. I said,
‘I’m not packing, you can frisk me.’
He did. This was a Brixton club, nobody batted an eye.
The punk said,
‘What a wanker.’
I asked, ‘So, are you coming?’
‘As long as my new friend comes too.’
I shrugged. I went first. As we approached the car, I said,
‘The back doors don’t work.’
The punk moved forward, peered in the back windows, said,
‘Nothing there.’
I got behind the wheel, the punk beside me and Kerrkovian riding shotgun. The punk said,
‘Where did you get this heap of shit?’
As I moved to turn the ignition, Jordan was up, had a wire round Kerrkovian’s neck. I smashed my elbow into the punk’s face, then crashed his head onto the dash. Kerrkovian thrashed and flailed but Jordan’s knee was pivoted against the seat. What seemed like an hour, Kerrkovian went limp, eyes out of their sockets. I said,
‘Jordan... Jordan, you can let go.’
‘You can never be too careful with this filth.’
‘Jesus, he’s near decapitated.’
Jordan let go. I started up the car and got to fuck outta there. Jordan said,
‘Go back to Holland Park.’
The front seat was awash in blood. Jordan threw the blanket over them. I asked,
‘What about this kid?’
‘He can help us dig.’
Heavy rain began and helped obscure the bundle on the front seat. Blood was leaking over my shoes and across the brake.