Night Town - Part Three

                Darion rose from a faded red armchair. In a rather classic Edwardian style, the uncomfortable chair stood out in stark contrast to the furniture in the rest of his minimalist lounge within his suburban mansion. His lounge featured merely a white marble coffee table, kentia palm potted plant and a gigantic, almost paper-thin television across the wall above a bespoke gas fireplace, flames flickering gently and heating the large room. Looking across at the doorway, Darion regarded Reece Walters with a wary eye. Walters was the chief Under-Baron of Darion Montrose’s under-empire in East Rhodes but he was far from an impressive specimen to look at. Prone to wearing a trenchcoat that would hang off his lanky frame which at least made him appear taller than his five feet seven inches, Walters was a man in his late fifties with the appearance of a man in his early seventies. Gaunt, almost skeletal features looked out from under a black trilby that was far too big for his head, resting instead on the tips of his ears. His pale skin was almost waxy in appearance, and a sheen of perspiration on his top lip suggested he was a heart attack waiting to happen. Beady black eyes blinked from beneath his sunken brow, looking down the end of a prominent nose that jutted from his face like an angry red beak. The smell of stale sweat and old alcohol was almost all-pervasive, but Darion hadn’t invited him there to comment on his addictions or hygiene issues.

                “I want to know where Griff was when he was found, Reece," he began, quietly. "He was torn to friggin’ shreds and I have an intelligence gap the size of East Rhodes about the whole damn situation. He was your runner, you tell me what he was doing.”

                Reece nodded almost imperceptibly. His eyes had narrowed, suggesting his hackles had risen at the quietly authoritative tone of voice that this young Montrose had dared to use with him, but he picked at his nose briefly with one long, claw-like finger for a couple of seconds before licking his thin lips with a dry tongue and replying in a voice that was pure cockney, choked with old gravedust.

                “Griff was runnin’ Thorburn Avenue. I ‘ad ‘im knockin’ on doors down there, makin’ sure we was gettin' what we was due. He ‘ad some problems at Jem’s wiv the new owner, but nothin’ out of the ordinary. Far as I know, he left there wiv the payment and was headin’ back to us. He never made it back to his car, I know that much. Fuckin’ thing got clamped and I ‘ad to bribe the cheeky bastard what done it to get it back before it landed on council property.”

                Darion pounded a fist onto the back his armchair, the sound echoing dully in the almost-empty room. Flicking his eyes across the floor as if searching for inspiration, he chewed his lip thoughtfully before nodding and starting to pace the white marble floor. “Where was his car parked? What route would he have taken back to it?”

                Walters shrugged momentarily before deciding that doing so was probably not the best thing for him to be doing at that moment. Clearing his throat with a brief hacking cough, he snorted up some phlegm, swallowing it noisily when he realised there was nowhere for him to spit it out. It gave him the time he needed to formulate his response.

                “I’d of gone back towards King Alfred’s Square and then cut down the alleyway next to St. John’s," he said, matter-of-factly. "There’s a path through the cemetery that’ll take you back out to Hawkford Road where Griff always parked his Beemer.”

                Darion stopped pacing and turned to his chief Under-Baron. Fixing the older man’s gaze with a steely one of his own, the Underlord spoke quickly and with authority. “I want that alleyway checked out. It’s already clear that we aren’t going to get help from Pedgley. The cops don’t wanna know and I guess that’s no surprise. We might be able to buy the fuckers off but we can’t expect them to actually help us. Still, see who you can use,” he said, touching his facial scar absently.

                Walters nodded again, more emphatically this time and began to turn from his Underlord boss. Suddenly he stopped himself and turned back to face Darion. “I’ll have a word wiv Jack," grunted Walters. "That old nut ‘angs round that way all the time. If anyone saw somethin’, it’d be ‘im. Not sure we’ll get any sense out of ‘im though, he’s mad as you like but it’s worth a go.”

                Darion shrugged his shoulders and waved a hand in dismissal, clearly not giving a rat’s ass how Reece got his information, only that he actually gets it. “That don’t bother me, Reece. I can’t have my people being picked off like that, especially valuable members of the crew like Griff. Just get it sorted, we can’t have this happening again.”

                Walters mumbled his assent before turning and striding out of the building, finding himself flanked by one of his heavy’s, Jonah Stamboli. Jonah was thickset and brutish, every bit as brawny as the now deceased Griff Bolton but with roughly half the intellect. Fortunately, his job was to be the muscle and the muscle only and in that he could perform the role better than almost anyone. Reece turned to him as they walked out of the front doors of Darion Montrose’s enormous home and walked down the paved driveway to the waiting Merc.

                “Get the boys together, Jonah. We got ourselves a little huntin’ to do.”

****

                Steve hopped down off the couch and buttoned up his shirt, his fingers fumbling as the ends of them were sore from his constant biting of the nails right down to the quick. His fingers resembled little more than stubby, inflamed fleshy lumps following his days of wondering what had caused his eyes to bleed. Feeling a little lightheaded, he finished doing up as many buttons as was considered reasonable to keep him decent, and then turned to the doctor sat behind his desk.

                “So what’s wrong with me, Doc? Am I going to live?”, he said, speaking this last part with a degree of defeated humour, displaying a sickly, weak smile on his tired, grizzled features. The doctor looked at him over his spectacles and frowned ever so slightly, evidently not seeing humour in the situation at all.

                “It could be a number of things, Mister Garron. I suspect you may have had some inflammation behind the eye resulting in a haemorrhage of some description, but it could also be symptomatic of a tumour or several other conditions. I will need to refer you directly to an ophthalmologist who will conduct further tests. I suggest in the meantime you continue to take aspirin daily and work on cutting down on your alcohol intake as well as watching your intake of fatty foods. You have high cholesterol and low blood pressure. You need to take better care of yourself, in short.”

                Steve had rapidly allowed his eyes to open wider during the doctor’s spiel, now more concerned than ever and wishing desperately that he had nails left to chew on. “When will I have an appointment with this specialist then? Are we talking days, weeks or months?” he said, almost desperately.

                Looking back at his notes, the doctor scrawled something illegible in black biro on his notepad and then laid his pen down. Turning back to his patient, he steepled his fingers below his chin and then spoke in a more restrained manner, the light from window glancing off his bald head.

                “Mister Garron, we’re talking days. You’ve come to me before when you had depression and you know me to be a straight-talking man. I honestly can’t say what it is that is causing your eyes to bleed. I have my suspicions as I’ve mentioned, but it wouldn’t be fair of me to get your hopes up unnecessarily," he said, sighing gently. "I am extremely concerned by what is happening to you and for that reason; I have secured you an appointment with a specialist. You have private health care, fortunately. Perhaps one of the relics of your time in the force so you don’t have to worry about waiting limits. Eleven o’clock, Friday morning. Doctor Calvert will see you then.”

                Steve nodded, swallowing nothing in his suddenly dry throat and running a hand through his sweat-dampened hair. “This Doctor Calvert, is he any good? I mean, is he going to be able to actually tell me what is going on, how I’m going to get better?” he said, quietly.

                Rubbing his eyes with the back of one hand, having removed his glasses, the doctor sighed again and responded in a resigned voice, “Yes, Mister Garron, he is good. He’s one of the best in his field. He can only work with what he’s got, however, and what he’s got is a middle aged man with a penchant for whiskey, a terrible diet and a predisposition towards depression. Have a little faith, we will do what we can for you but we need you to work with us.”

                “Fine, fine. I’ll see how I get on. Thanks for your time, Doc, I’ll be sure to make it to Doctor Calvert on Friday.” Steve turned to leave as Doctor Marshak looked back to his notes, making a few more scratchy marks on the paper before tucking them back into the buff-coloured folder. He turned his attention to the door as it closed after Steve Garron before reaching for the phone on his desk.

****

                Jack muttered to himself as he always did, wandering the streets of East Rhodes. His destination was unclear, moving as he did like a ball of waste paper in the wind, and being regarded as such by the passing members of the public as he weaved uncertainly between them and the nearby gutter. To someone studying his movements over time, however, they would realise that his erratic sense of direction was anything but random. He unerringly headed from King Alfred’s Square towards Winchester Street, then to Elderberry Lane and finally to Thorburn Avenue, always in that order and always walking in the same places as before, as if treading on marked footprints. The central pivot between these four areas could be considered to be St. John’s Church, a relic of 19^th century idealism, originally built in impressive granite blocks that were long since worn by rain, damage and lack of care, the dark stained stone symbolised the grim mood of East Rhodes and characterised the inhabitants perfectly. Stood upon a raised area of ground, the church was closed at night and rarely opened during the day, holding a service only once a month that was attended by the few who believed and the desperate who wanted to.

                Jack avoided the church himself. His muttering grew louder the closer he got, and on rainy days a passerby could see him raise his fist at its high bell tower, forever silent and unused and indeed devoid of a bell at all. Jack would shout obscenities at it with all the passion of a preacher before calming himself, shaking his head sadly and walking onwards, ever onwards.

This day was no different. Jack shuffled along the edge of King Alfred’s Square, his rheumy eyes fixed upon the church in the near distance and yet it could have been miles away from the old man, for all he could see through the fog of his poor eyesight. His old woollen coat was pulled tight against his emaciated frame in a vain attempt to keep the wind out. The temperature had plummeted overnight and his shuffling steps were now hampered by small patches of ice on the ground, the first sure sign of the oncoming winter. Had Jack been in possession of all his wits, no doubt the mere thought of the punishing cold to come would have been enough to convince him to seek assistance from the council with finding somewhere warm to sleep at night.

He slowly made his way towards Winchester Street, the smell of the curry house there strong on the biting wind despite it being too early for the restaurant to serve anyone. Jack smacked his lips involuntarily, the brief image of a spicy food appearing in his confused mind before disintegrating and being replaced once again by the meaningless buzz of his thoughts. He took his final step in King Alfred’s Square, turning as he always did to face towards the church before looking to take his first step into Winchester Street.

But someone was in his footprint. “’Ello Jack,” said Reece Walters, sneering momentarily, “Need to ‘ave a word in your shell-like...”

The old man looked at him in confusion before Jack found himself lifted clear of the ground by the massive Jonah Stamboli who wrapped his thick arms around the filthy old man, wrinkling his wide nose in disgust as he dumped the old man in the back of the transit van parked at the junction between Winchester Street and St Alfred’s Square.

“Time you told us what you know, old-timer,”said Walters, “Been a long time comin’, I’m sure you’d agree...”

 Stamboli slammed the rear doors and the van’s engine started. Walters turned to look at St. John’s, his beady eyes narrowing in the morning light before he climbed into the passenger seat of the van, shutting the door behind him quickly as it sped off down the backstreets of East Rhodes.

To be continued 

(c) James Batty 2011