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  Caffeine Nights Publishing

  Face Down

  Garry Bushell

  Fiction aimed at the heart and the head...

  Published by Caffeine Nights Publishing 2013

  Copyright © Garry Bushell 2013

  Garry Bushell has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1998 to be identified as the author of this work

  CONDITIONS OF SALE

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, scanning, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher

  This book has been sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental

  Published in Great Britain by Caffeine Nights Publishing

  www.caffeine-nights.com

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN: 978-1-907565-55-7

  Cover design by

  Mark (Wills) Williams

  Everything else by

  Default, Luck and Accident

  For Loolee – one in a million.

  Acknowledgements

  I’d like to thank Darren Laws and Caffeine Nights for publishing this book and John Blake and Rosie Virgo for getting behind the original novels. I’d also like to thank Peter Cox for his wisdom and foresight, Tania for putting up with me and the original Bushwhackers - Mr A and Mr B - for giving me the inspiration to write The Face in the first place. If I had a hat I’d also tip it to Colin Edmonds, Mick Pugh, Peter Carbery, Stuart James, Tommy Irwin, Jeff and Mick, my brother Terence and my dear friend the PM. Much love as always to my children – Julie, Danny, Robert, Jenna and Ciara.

  Up the Addicks.

  Face Down

  1

  Saturday September 29, 2012. Bolton,

  Greater Manchester. 6.15pm

  There are times when sunset can’t come quickly enough, when the skies darken prematurely and even the streets seem to resent the lingering inconvenience of daylight. I was three yards from the kebab shop when the heavens opened above me like a ruptured colostomy bag. I ducked inside, shook the rain from my Schott parka jacket, and nodded at Ferhat.

  “Usual?” he asked, flashing a gob full of off-colour teeth more crooked than an MP’s expenses. I gave him the thumbs up and stood back. Nice fella, but he needed to sort out them rotten Hampsteads. To tell you the truth, the paintwork in his little backstreet khazi was in no better nick. You would never have guessed he knocked out the best halep kebabs in Greater Manchester.

  There were a few people ahead of me, including a striking brunette, just the right side of brassy. Probably a little shy of thirty with a cleavage that was hard to avoid. She had a figure that would make the local Mullah think twice about heading off for evening prayers. Her iPod was loud enough for me to hear that she was listening to UB40, although it looked to me that She Be more like 36 double D. That’s the thing about these Northern birds, they tend to come with a decent upper balcony – just how I like ’em. And believe me, it has been a while. The last time I got hard I put it down to early onset rigor mortis.

  She was checking me out but I didn’t let on that I’d noticed. Instead, I picked up a copy of the Express from the counter, and started to casually flick through it. I stopped at the William Broadwick column, and was aware that Knockers was reading it over my shoulder. She was wearing enough Charlie Blue to stun a mosquito.

  Broadwick’s lead article was angry, articulate stuff. Britain’s courts, emasculated by Brussels, traitor politicians and their bleeding heart allies in the media, had left the country a haven for criminals and yobs. Was it any wonder, the columnist thundered, that ‘ordinary folk now felt that there was no justice, just US?’

  Never afraid to recycle an old line, our Willie. “Hear, hear,” Knockers said out loud, adding. “Oh, I’m sorry.” She pulled out her earphones. “I didn’t mean to read your paper.”

  “Be my guest,” I said, handing it to her. “It ain’t mine.”

  “Ta. I do like what Broadwick has to say, he seems in touch with the man in the street.”

  Which street? Bond Street? Pall Mall? Sloane Square? I’d heard him on the radio. Our Willie sounded as much like a man of the people as Cameron or Blair. Her accent, on the other hand, was pure Smithills, common as muck. Again, just how I like ’em.

  “He certainly talks a good fight.”

  “Listen to this,” she said: “Trendy lawyers and politicians have elevated the rights of criminal scum above those of the law-abiding citizen. This has created an imbalance that cannot be tolerated. It is an offence against nature, against logic and against society.”

  “It’s hard to argue with…”

  I grabbed her arm.

  “Hey!”

  “Shh. Stand still.”

  “OK everybody, this won’t take long.”

  An unshaven slime-ball with a thin, unshaven, rodent face and long wet, matted hair had walked into the shop brandishing a machete that, like its owner, had seen better days. He looked like a pin-up boy for Scumbag Monthly. Motioning at the queue to move back, he walked up to the counter. The two Turks behind the jump eyed him with a mixture of anger and resignation.

  “Empty the till and don’t try anything funny,” rat-face barked. His tone was nasal, whiney, his eyes wide. He was sweating like Lee Evans at the end of an arena gig.

  Oytun, the younger, prouder man, glared, but his father Ferhat put a steadying arm on his shoulder. “No problem, sir. Just please keep calm.”

  Ferhat opened the till and produced a ten pound note, £30 in fivers, six pound coins and a handful of shrapnel.

  “Is that it?” the robber sneered.

  “We have not been open long.”

  “This ain’t enough.”

  “It’s all we have.”

  “Forty-six poxy quid? You piss-taking cunt. Empty your fuckin’ pockets.”

  Ferhat pulled out a set of keys; Oytun, a few more coppers.

  “Are you fucking sure?”

  Ferhat shrugged. “We’ve only just opened, it’s early,” he said, almost apologetically.

  “Shut it!” shouted the sweaty little creep. He poked his machete at the elderly bloke in front of me. “Right, you! Hand over your wallet!”

  Reluctantly, the old boy complied. Then Sweaty turned on Knockers. “And you, girl, empty out your purse and take off all the bling. All of yer, gimme everything you’ve got. Now!”

  I caught a blast of fetid breath and clocked his choppers which were in a worse state than Ferhat’s. I’ve seen better teeth on an exhumed corpse. These fuckers would give Shane MacGowan nightmares, they looked like partially decomposed Quavers.

  There was a flash of metal behind the yellow stumps – his tongue was pierced, and his neck crudely tattooed with ‘Cut here’. Oh how I’d like to. He waved the machete under her chin.

  I stepped forward, my legs slightly apart, with the weight on my back foot. “You don’t wanna do that, mate,” I said calmly.

  The cocky little smack-head sneered. “Why, what are you gonna d…?”

  Before he could finish the sentence, I grabbed the hand holding the tool and jerked it back until his wrist snapped. The jerk yelped in pain, dropping the machete. A good hard left to the gu
ts doubled him up, and a right knocked him spark out. His body hit the floor and stayed there.

  “Junkie slime,” I muttered. The punters spontaneously clapped and cheered.

  Oytun was straight on the blower to the Old Bill. Ferhat came over and started returning his customers’ property, apologising profusely, and Knockers flung herself into my arms, which was nice.

  “Thank you so much,” she said. “That’s the bravest thing anyone has ever done for me.”

  Her mouth looked soft and wet, extremely kissable.

  “S’OK. You OK?”

  She nodded. “I’m going to tell the local papers all about you.”

  “No you’re not, darling. I’m going to collect me halep, say good night and go home.”

  “But you’re a hero.”

  I flashed a smile that made her legs melt. “All the best heroes have alter-egos,” I said with a wink.

  She looked blank.

  “You know, Clark Kent, Bruce Wayne, Peter Parker, Matt Murdoch... no relation to Rupert.”

  Blanker. I turned away.

  “No hold on,” she said. “I do get it. I just wouldn’t open with it...”

  Ho! She was funny as well as cute. I liked her even more. Ferhat defused the unresolved sexual tension.

  “Thank you, H, thank you, so much” he said. “Here, your food is ready, it’s on the house.”

  “Cheers, Ferhat. You sure? You don’t have to, mate.”

  “Please, please, thank you so much.”

  “I’m Katie,” said Knockers. “What’s your name then? Just for me. I’d like to know who…”

  “Who was that masked man?”

  “You’re not wearing a mask.”

  “I never leave home without one.”

  “Who are you, though?”

  What could I tell her? That I call myself Harry Tyler and I’m a bastard? In fact I’m a bastard’s bastard and I would break her heart as easily as I could have broken rat-boy’s neck. Oh, and by the way, I don’t tell anyone my real name because M15 want me dead?

  I had too much history to even get started, so I just said “Really nice to meet you.”

  “Katie, I’m Katie.”

  “Yeah, you said, gorgeous. And I’m gone. Sayonara sweetheart.”

  I kissed her on the cheek, squeezing her arm just a moment too long, and walked out. It was still pissing down. Behind me, Ferhat happily grassed me up, volunteering the name and location of my local, the whereabouts of the backstreet boxing gym I occasionally train in, and the fact that I got a take-away from there once a week like clockwork.

  “Be very wary of this man, miss,” Oytun had said.

  “Why?” she’d asked.

  “He is a wrong’un. I have it on good authority that he supports West Ham.”

  Well, someone’s got to.

  2

  Sunday, September 30, 2012. Royal Tunbridge Wells, Kent. 12.05am.

  They say your life flashes before your eyes when you die, but that isn’t strictly true. It’s not the good memories that play back in the final moments before oblivion, not the love or the triumphs or the happy times. It’s the pain and the let-downs, the failure and the regrets. The things you’ve done wrong.

  The avenging angel watched Timothy Brown run, knowing that his last thoughts would be flashbacks of the suffering he’d caused. The faces of his victims – young, innocent faces, terrified, panicking and wracked with pain – would haunt the sick, dickless bastard all the way to eternal damnation.

  Brown looked back and saw the gun in the angel’s hand. Then the dirty nonce panicked, tripped and fell. The avenger was over him in a heartbeat. He opened his mouth to scream – but it was too late, the angelic finger had already pressed the trigger. He was holy toast. The angel nodded dispassionately.

  No justice, just us.

  3

  Eleven hours later.

  It was a day much like his ex-wife, cold and overcast, thought Mick Neale; but now he was in the pub he felt a lot happier. He generally did. He settled on his favourite bar stool, sipped his pint of lukewarm London Pride, winked at Thelma, and out of habit started assembling a Golden Virginia roll-up.

  “DAD!” A young boy’s voice disturbed the peace as rudely as a bugler at a séance.

  “Is that your Mark?” asked Thelma.

  “Yeah,” Mick grunted. “It’ll wait.”

  He picked up a discarded Sun and flicked through the sports pages. There was something very appealing about Thelma. She was sturdy but sexy, and the attraction was mutual. He could see it in the twinkle in her eyes, and feel it in the flirtatious sub-text every time they spoke. One date, tops, and he’d be in there like a pack of beagles. No crevice unsniffed.

  “DAD!” The boy again; more urgent now. His shout was followed by a girl’s scream. Mick threw down the paper and ran out of the Toad Rock Retreat. He could see the back of his son’s head, up on the rocks.

  “What is it?” Mick shouted. “This better be good, Marky.”

  “It’s a body.”

  “What?”

  Mick clambered up the damp, slippery rocks to where his ten-year-old was perched, and eased a younger, crying girl to one side. Other kids and a few parents were drawn towards the commotion.

  Mick looked to where Mark was pointing and sucked in his breath. It was a body, all right. Face down, male, white, late twenties, brown hair, cheap clothes, old trainers. Slowly, he lowered himself down between the rocks. He started to take the man’s pulse and recoiled.

  “What…who?” The sobbing girl’s mother had arrived, scarcely more collected than her daughter. “Has he slipped?” she said. Very jolly hockey-sticks.“Here, pass him up, I’ll help.”

  “No point, he’s dead.”

  “How can you tell?”

  Mick looked up at her.

  “The bullet hole in his forehead’s a bit of a clue.”

  It was a clean wound, with a small, round abrasion collar and a ‘tattoo’ of powder markings around it. The back of his head was a mess. He’d been plugged from the front, straight on, at close range. Alongside the footprints of the corpse’s trainers Mick noticed a trail of imprints, size eleven or twelve, coming and going in the mud. They looked like Doc Martens.

  A couple of teenagers in Burberry caps leaned forward and started taking pictures with their mobile phones.

  “For pity’s sake,” Mick snapped. “Give the man some dignity. Make yourself useful with them things, call the Feds.”

  He grabbed Mark by the arm and marched him back to the pub. A crowd had started to congregate at the foot of the rocks.

  “Man, wha’ happen?” said a pasty white teenager in a Dr Dre T-shirt, with a face like a marinara pizza.

  “It’s a body, like on CSI,” shouted Mark.

  “Cool,” the little twat replied.

  4

  Nine hours later. Ongar, Essex.

  Simon Loewy climbed off the girl and made a low guttural, animal sound. Like the pig he was, Lotte thought. Car sex, not exactly classy but at least the back of fat-boy’s Bentley had more style than her old man’s Transit van. She reached for a tissue and discreetly mopped a small pool of his drool off her neck and shoulder.

  Loewy pulled off the condom with one hand, studied its contents absent-mindedly, and patted her leg with the other. He still had it. “Need a slash,” he mumbled gruffly.

  And they say romance is dead, thought Lotte.

  Loewy opened the car door. It was raining stair rods. Bollocks. He lobbed the condom, and made a dash for the nearest tree. Charlotte shook her head and pulled her crepe de Chine panties back up. Poor old lover boy, she thought – out of shape, out of breath and out of time.

  Loewy smirked. It had only taken him two dates to smash it, and he hadn’t even had to shell out for a hotel room. Bargain. Strange girl. Quiet, face like porcelain. She’d just wandered into his shop one day and the old Loewy charm had done the rest. He could have made the sex last longer, should have done really, but it had been a long
day. Still, he would see her again. She weren’t a bad sort…a classy brunette with a cute smile and a lot of style. Lotta, that was her name. Or was it Liza? If it was Lezza he’d definitely have her again, and her friend. All he had to do now was figure out a way to get shot of her on the hurry-up. He shook off the final drips and jogged back to the car. Lotta or Leeza was reaching into the glove compartment. “Fuck me,” he chortled. “It’s pissing down like a cow with two cunts. If it rains any more they’ll find Nemo. I was just, er…”

  He spotted the Wildey pistol – his Wildey pistol – in her hand.

  “Careful love, that thing’s loaded.”

  She rang her small, neat pinky finger down the weapon, grazing the tip coquettishly.

  “Something else with an eight-inch barrel.”

  Loewy chuckled. So pleased with himself, thought Lotte. Conceit – God’s gift to little men.

  “Is this for her indoors?” she asked with a grin. “Who needs divorce courts when you can just blow the bitch away, right?”

  “Don’t be daft,” he smiled. “If it ever comes to that, I’ll get a pro in.”

  “How about me?”

  “You?”

  “I can handle a gun.”

  “Ha! Who’d hire a woman hit-man?”

  “Your wife,” she lied.

  Simon Loewy’s face was frozen in a half laugh when the .449inch 240 grain bullet shot through his heart.

  Straight to hell, boy; straight to hell, boy. “And may God have mercy upon your soul,” muttered Lotte. She removed her ER20 ear defenders and began to stuff pages from a torn-up magazine into his open mouth. “Because no one else on His good green earth will.”