Night Town - Part One

People thought Jack was crazy. He always wore the same clothes, always walked the same four streets and always said the same few words: “So it ends.” Jack wasn’t even his real name. No one knew who he really was. No one took the time to really give a shit. All they saw was a broken old man, thin and wrinkled, smelling strongly of two parts body odour to one part urine with a hint of cast-off cigarette ends and a light sprinkling of general refuse. His heavy green trench coat had more holes in it than a Labour party manifesto but he always pulled it tight over his bony, stooping frame with one hand wearing a woollen glove that was fingerless from overuse, not by design.

“So it ends”, he would say with utter conviction if anyone managed to catch his rheumy eye. He normally followed this with a good-humoured cackle, as if expecting the recipient of his sage words to sufficiently understand his meaning. Sullen hoppers during the day and black-eyed clubbers at night would see him between Elderberry Lane, Winchester Street, Thorburn Avenue and King Alfred Place where he would be constantly circuiting or pausing for rest in a shop doorway. Locals had named him Jack, but those in the know referred to him as the Invisible Man, his constant walking going so unnoticed by the general population who passed by him, going about their daily routines and continuing on to their dingy, but warm homes or air-conditioned office buildings without even so much as acknowledging the old-timers existence.

By contrast, Darion Montrose was king of the streets. His word was law in a city filled with broken promises, dispirited manic-depressives and violent outbursts. Streetlights rarely worked at night, causing an almost everlasting dark gloom over the streets that were lit with nothing more than the light from city centre apartment windows and the odd commercial premises that deigned to leave their lights on overnight. Piles of discarded rubbish, faeces of dog and human origin alike and dirty rainwater run-off and automobile carbon covered the brick roads of the city centre like a mire of filth.

But here was where Darion had risen to power. From his early days as a drug runner for Two-Fingers and a “heavy” for Marchbank Adams, he had finally seized control for himself in 2004 after dispatching the self-styled Marquis Bane with nothing more than a switchblade knife and a cool smile during a drinking session as they watched a football match. Darion could still remember the Underlord’s warm, thick blood running over his hands like a viscous wine. Victory was a sweet moment and Darion had made best use of his good fortune to run the downtrodden area of East Rhodes, organizing Gangers to extract payment from shop owners and bank managers, running a lucrative protection racket that enabled him to pursue his own interests in debauchery and lust. Darion had become a name that was synonymous with fear for the inhabitants of East Rhodes, their rent payments falling as Darion took control of the rental market, running so-called safehouses for the unemployed, the drug addicts and the prostitutes, then flogging them cheap drugs to keep them hooked and beholden to him, making sure they could never afford to move elsewhere. Darion had eyes on every street corner and in every level of society, his so-called black rats but even he was dumbfounded by the sudden disappearances occurring on his patch. Gang members, prostitutes, cutpurses, pickpockets and thugs had been going missing for weeks.

The Police had done nothing to try and solve the problem. The local Inspector had reacted with some glee when the problem was mentioned to him by Darion during their last meet, even though the Inspector was pocketing a nice fat bonus for him to keep Police attention elsewhere and away from the activities of one Darion Montrose. Inspector Pidgley may have been a greedy son of a bitch, but he still took unrequited pleasure in the suffering of criminals. It was clear that Montrose would need to deal with this issue by himself. Normally missing people wasn’t an issue for him, they always turned up somewhere in some failed attempt to leave the life of grime they had been drawn into and requiring little persuasion to return to it when given their options – work for Montrose or find themselves in an unmarked grave outside the city.

However, now Darion was starting to lose money. Profits were down, unrest was rising and persuading people to carry out his work for him was becoming more difficult. Some of the Under-barons were becoming restless, questioning his authority and even gathering for secret meetings in the mistaken belief that he did not know about it. Darion knew about it alright. His black rats would consistently return to him with information in the hopes of receiving a small wrap of heroin or a minor cash incentive. Sometimes the information he was brought was of particularly poor quality but such are the potential pitfalls when giving rewards for information. Darion would listen with a practiced ear and judge its authenticity before handing out an appropriate reward. Many had been the occasions where he had dispensed a beating upon a scummer who provided what he took to be bogus information in the hope of getting something for nothing. No one got something for nothing, even Darion knew that.

And so here he sat in Warehouse 19c, the seat of his power in the district and his main base of operations. Before him on an old gurney lay the remains of Griff Bolton, one-time heavy and normally reliable drugs runner for Darion’s chief Under-baron, Reece Walters. Beside the gurney, Doctor Marshak stood nervously as he had been for the last few minutes as Darion regarded the corpse of Bolton coolly and with evident disdain upon his angular features. Darion broke the silence with his trademark gravelly voice.

“Christ, Doc, he’s a fucking mess. What the hell happened?”

Startled out of his nervousness, Doctor Marshak stammered in response, casting an anxious eye over the torn corpse beside him as if seeking a medical explanation where previously he had not found one after spending hours looking at it.

“I... I think it’s safe to say that death was a violent and bloody affair, Mister Montrose. I’ve not been able to determine cause of death, but...”

                “Safe to say cause of death is pretty bloody obvious, Marshak. He’s been torn apart! Jeez, he friggin’ stinks as well...”

                “Yes, he has soiled himself post-mortem. This is quite common and... Well, what I mean to say is that the multiple lacerations and the amount of force that was required to cause this kind of injury is fairly substantial.”

                “Yeah, no shit. Whoever did this just knocked fifty-freakin’-grand off my monthly takings.”

Marshak swallowed noisily, his throat dry and his forehead beaded with sweat. He ran a suddenly rubbery hand over his bald pate and adjusted his black-rimmed spectacles upon his nose before he licked his lips with a rough, dry tongue and continued.

                “I think we’re talk about ‘what’, rather than ‘who’, Mister Montrose...”

Darion frowned, his forehead creasing around an ugly scar that ran from his left temple to the front of his hairline like a jagged white smile. Taking his mahogany-coloured eyes off the corpse for the first time, he looked at the doctor stood before him and lifted a hand off the arm of his favourite padded, green-leather armchair and rested his chin upon it.

                “What are you getting at, Doc? Are you saying this wasn’t done by a man?”

                “I’m saying this... this bears the hallmarks of a wild animal attack, Mister Montrose. I’m no veterinarian but you see here... and here...” Marshak pointed with a small steel pen to a number of lacerations on the chest and what remained of the face of the shredded cadaver on the gurney. “Those injuries are representative of claw marks and bite marks. I would need to speak with an expert to try and determine a species, but I’m confident this is not a human kill. Large areas of flesh, such as the buttocks and thighs have been torn away and I would suggest it is reasonable to assume that these areas have been consumed.”

                “Shitting hell. You better make sure you’re right, Marshak. How the fuck could a wild animal have gotten into East Rhodes? We’re freaking miles away from the edge of the city! Are we talking a wild dog here or what?”

                “I think not. I don’t know for sure but whatever animal caused this, I am ninety-nine per cent certain it would have to be significantly larger than any breed of dog I know to cause this kind of injury.”

Darion ran a rough hand over his stubbly face, scratching absently as he closed his eyes for a moment. He responded to Doctor Marshak in a resigned tone. “Fine, source yourself an expert. But we keep this strictly between us, Doc. You hear me? I don’t need this shit getting out to the streets and stirring the pot further. Fuck this up and your ass is on the line. We need to find out what the hell is doing this and put a stop to it before my workforce gets freaked out any further. If they stop being able to move about my streets freely, my profits will take the hit. And if they take a hit, you can bet your ass that you will take a hit too, Marshak.”

Doctor Marshak nodded nervously. Darion waved him away absently with one hand and then turned to look out of the window behind him and out into the streets of the industrial park set out before him. A niggling fear in the back of his mind kept telling him that he should cut his losses and get the hell out of East Rhodes. Balling a fist, he slammed it into the window sill before him and shook his head. I’ll be damned before I give up now. Not when I’m so fuckin’ close.

To be continued...

(c) James Batty 2011