Balzac of the Badlands Read online

After he finishes showering and before he makes his breakfast – Dorset muesli with milk and a dribble of fresh single cream, a handful of blueberries, and a pot of coffee – Jonathan Eaves makes a number of phone calls in an attempt to get to the bottom of what has happened. It is a mess.

  ***

  Mikey (Crikey) O’Reilly sits in his loft apartment on Finsbury Square peeling a banana. Through his BeoSound1 speakers, he listens to ‘Stories for Boys’ from U2’s first album, and with his big toe tickles Victor, his Cornish Rex cat.

  ***

  As far as Jonathan can tell, the car tailing the first lorry was taken out soon after it left Dover, the driver and the muscle both missing. These aren’t boy soldiers. Levine and McCartney, two of his best men. The lorry driver, also missing, had worked for the Eaveses before and, with the wedge he was being paid, could, Jonathan Eaves thought, be trusted. The second car, the one containing Woodentop and Bobby P, had likewise been taken out, this time in Edmon ton – that’s where the police found the empty, pranged and dented Range Rover.

  ***

  ‘Peel,’ Mikey says, ‘want some peel,’ and offers it to the cat that, prone, sniffs it, leaps up and runs into the far corner of the loft space.

  ‘Useless,’ Mikey says. ‘What fucking good are you as a cat?’

  ***

  Listening to the whirr, grind, and bubble of his Miele coffeemaker, Jonathan notices a van parked outside the gates to the house. Just the bonnet and the grill are visible, as if the vehicle is hiding or sneaking a look. He hadn’t noticed it earlier. He crosses to the window to get a better view but cannot see the driver’s seat. It is obscured by trees.

  ***

  The door opens and in walks Dave, Mikey’s second in command. Dave crosses the beechwood floor, his frown deepens until, as he reaches Mikey, he wears the put-upon countenance of a constipated Klingon.

  ‘Dave,’ Mikey says, extricating himself from the black-leather chaise longue – or Lon Chaney as Mikey calls it.

  ‘Mikey.’

  ‘Dave,’ Mikey says.

  ‘Mikey,’ Dave says.

  ‘Dave, you just come up here to remind us of our names, have ya?’

  ‘No. Mikey…’

  ‘Dave.’

  ***

  Jonathan whispers, ‘Shit!’ One of the boys should be in the gym. He steps into the lobby and goes downstairs to the pool area. The chlorine, mixing with the bitter coffee aroma from the kitchen, makes his throat dry and itchy. Mossman, pumping his legs on the recumbent exercise bike, looks round as Jonathan swings open the door. Denman, breast-stroking in the pool, stops, treads water, the goggles and swimming cap he wears making him look like a species of tanned seal.

  ***

  ‘Look,’ Dave says, ‘I’ve heard something. And it looks like we might be copping for it.’

  ‘One thing I don’t like is copping when I’ve never done nothing. What is it?’

  ‘The Eaveses.’

  ‘I imagine you’re talking Jonathan and Martin, not Christmas and New Year?’ says Mikey.

  ‘Yeah. Word’s out that they had a bit of business going down last night, like, biggest in their history. 50 million sobs or thereabouts.’

  ***

  ‘Boss,’ Denman and Mossman say.

  ‘Van outside. Know anything?’ asks Jonathan Eaves.

  ‘Nothing to do with us,’ Denman says, hauling himself from the pool.

  ‘Was it there when you arrived this morning?’

  ‘Didn’t see it. You, Moss?’

  ‘No, not me,’ Mossman says, panting.

  ‘Check it out.’

  ***

  Mikey falls back on to Lon Chaney, his mind zigzagging between jealousy and incredulity.

  ***

  Denman dries himself, puts on his jeans, a sweatshirt, and with his toes manipulates a pair of white Havaianas on to his damp feet. Jonathan shakes his head. Mossman throws on a hooded top. They follow Jonathan up the marble stairs into the lobby.

  ***

  ‘Go on and don’t go around the houses,’ says Mikey.

  ‘The Eaveses were smuggling smack into the country from Turkey, along with some Kurds – and they were all stuffed full of Afghan smack, an’ all, a kilo apiece apparently, and it all went belly-up, so to speak.’

  ***

  Click. The gates swing back. The two men walk with heads down towards the entrance, the gravel crunching under their feet, Denman shaking his flip-flops to dislodge small stones. Jonathan can hear the traffic on nearby London Road, can see the crows perched in the trees ringing the driveway, and is aware of an aircraft brightly needling through the sky. Denman and Mossman look both ways along the road. No cars. They both turn, shrug their shoulders.

  ***

  ‘Two lorries – one hijacked on the motorway, the other abandoned in a haulage yard. Two teams following the lorries wiped out. One in Dover, one just as they were coming into Edmonton.’ Dave says.

  ***

  ‘Take a look,’ Jonathan says.

  Denman opens the driver’s door.

  ‘Nothing, boss,’ he shouts, ‘no maps, no nothing. Stinks, though. Like a kebab shop.’

  ‘Look in the back. Open the doors.’

  ‘Which ones?’ Mossman asks.

  ‘Doesn’t matter. Just do it.’

  Jonathan hears the slide of the side doors.

  ‘Fuck!’ he hears, ‘Cunts!’

  Denman comes around from the side of the van, his right hand covering his mouth, his left holding on to the hood of the van. Mossman follows, stands in the centre of the drive, holds his hands in the air, then lets them drop to his side. Jonathan feels the pull of Mossman’s shoulder sockets, the tension in his neck, the tears welling in his eyes. He walks towards him.

  ***

  ‘And?’ Mikey says.

  ‘Word is, it was us.’

  ‘What? We don’t muck about with shit like that and the Eaveses know it.’

  ‘Yeah, well. Who else is it? What we gonna do? If the Eaveses think it’s us, it’ll be full-scale.’

  ‘I’ll call Jonathan. Who’s spreading the rumours?’

  ‘Well, the busies found some Kurds wondering around sick as dogs. They’re guessing it was either us or the Eaveses who did the smuggling. The Eaveses know it was them, so they’re thinking we must’ve hijacked the lorries.’

  ‘Oh, they do, do they?’

  ‘Mikey, we’d better sort this.’

  ‘I’m all over it like a cheap rash.’

  ***

  ‘Stay there, boss,’ Denman says, taking his hand from his mouth and holding it palm up toward Jonathan, ‘you don’t need to see this. We’ll sort it. Go get some bin liners or something, Moss, will ya?’

  Mossman walks back to the house, head held up, staring at the sky. Denman follows but stops in front of Jonathan.

  ‘Fuck sake, boss,’ he says.

  Jonathan steps forward, as he does, the crows rip from the trees in a rending of flap and claw, and he is on the ground, shielding his head, the large figure of Denman draped over his prone body protecting him from burning metal, falling body parts.

  ***

  Mikey picks up his mobile, scrolls through contacts, and dials.

  Mossman picks up the ringing phone.

  ‘Yeah, Mikey for Jonathan.’

  ‘He’s a bit busy.’

  ‘It’s not the Pope I’m after.’

  ‘Hold on, Mikey.’

  ‘I’ll hold. Like the fucking Da Vinci Code, this.’

  ‘Mikey.’

  ‘Jonathan.’

  ‘Somebody’s blown up a van right outside my house.’

  ‘Nothing to do with it. Innocent as the driven.’

  ‘You sure, Mikey?’

  ‘Would I? Come on. We’ve known each other donkey’s. I wouldn’t be pulling your leg now. Leave that up to your chiropodist.’

  ‘No jokes, Mikey. Not now.’

  ‘I know it’s not a laughing matter, but you know me, a pun a day keeps the
Flying Squad away.’

  ‘I’ll be making a call.’

  ‘Anything I can do in the meantime, you just have to whistle.’

  ‘Where’s Balzac? I want to ask him a favour.’

  ‘Balzac?’ Mikey looks at Dave, raises an eyebrow while mouthing, ‘Get Balzac on the blower.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Not seen him in a long while.’

  ‘You have a number?’

  ‘Er, yeah, somewhere. I’ll get someone to call you back with it.’

  ‘Don’t warn him off.’

  ‘Course I won’t. You know me.’

  ‘Later.’

  Mikey stands, crosses to the window, looks out on to the square, at the tennis players returning home, people walking dogs, a group of teenagers passing around a joint.

  ‘Got him?’

  ‘He’s not answering.’

  ‘Find him. And quick. Try H.’

  ‘OK. What’s it all about, Mikey?’

  ‘Trouble. I don’t Adam and Eave this. And, Dave?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Seen the dog?’

  ‘No, Mikey. Well, not since this morning.’

  ***

  ‘What’s going on, Balzac?’ asks The Mermaid.

  ‘I don’t know. Looks like everybody is looking for Sarah.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘I think it’s got something to do with Ozan, the Kurds, and the smack.’

  ‘Ozan? But he wouldn’t get mixed up in that, would he? I mean, ever since the Badirkhans were put away, he’s been trying to promote Kurdish business, setting up that club, arranging community meetings.’

  ‘I don’t know. Hopefully, we’ll find out more when we go see him.’

  ‘We’re here,’ says The Mermaid pointing to the gateway of the Bedfords’ semi-detached.

  I get out of the car and tell The Mermaid to follow once she’s parked. As I walk up the garden path, I notice that the front door is open. I walk up, push it, it swings open. The hallway is dark but the light is on in the living room, it’s then that I notice the curtains are closed. I look at my watch – 4:45. Prying neighbours? Peeping Toms? Nah, something’s not quite right.

  ‘Mrs. Beckford?’ I say.

  Nothing. A clock is ticking. If I lived here, it would get on my nerves. But the noise of bodies, the soft pulse and emanation of our beings, the flesh noise we emit would drown out the clock’s insistence. You know what I mean? We walk in a building, a room, an office, and we know there’s someone else there. We can’t see them, we can’t hear them, but there’s a presence, a subtle shift in air temperature, in the dust being carried through space as if tinged with the life of another. The house gives off a pink light, fleshy, the hallway consuming the pale glow of the living room, lapping it up, wanting more. I step on to the threshold. Poke my head into the hall.

  ‘Mrs. Beckford, it’s Balzac. You wanted me to call round.’

  ‘She there?’ The Mermaid asks and the question propels me into the entranceway, past the ticking clock, and I stand in front of the living room panting, my eyes closed.

  ‘Jesus!’ I whisper with gritted teeth back at The Mermaid.

  ‘Why are you whispering?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I whisper.

  ‘Don’t forget she has a dog,’ The Mermaid says.

  ‘Shit, I forgot.’

  ‘And her sister’s here.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah. The front door was open.’

  ‘It was double bolted and had a chain on when I called earlier. I had to ring from my mobile to tell her I was outside.’

  ‘Stay there,’ I say as The Mermaid follows me into the room.

  ‘Fuck!’ I say, not one to hide things.

  The front room – lounge, whatever – is a mess. I know now why the curtains are closed. Someone has put their foot through the flat-screen television, ripped up the pink-floral sofa cushions with what looks like a Stanley knife, the glass coffee table has a crack along its centre, two standard lamps at either end of the room cower behind vandalised chairs. Two landscape paintings that once hung on the wall now trash in the corner, their frames used to smash china figurines of shepherdesses crumbled on a sideboard, a large carriage clock lies not ticking on the carpet.

  ‘Balzac?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘What’s that smell?’

  ‘Dunno. Smells like rotten pineapple in a rusty can.’ It’s sickly sweet in other words but undercut with something metallic.

  ‘Have you seen…?’

  ‘I know,’ I say. ‘I know.’

  What I haven’t told you, and I think I am in denial, or trying to keep my mouth shut so as not to panic The Mermaid – but, I keep forgetting she’s a sharp one – there’s blood everywhere, smeared on surfaces, turning a maroony brown colour. Even a small puddle or two. What the fuck happened here?

  ‘Call the police.’

  ‘No. We don’t know who we’re dealing with. Let’s search the house. They might still be here hiding.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘I’m hoping just Mrs. Beckford, her sister, and the mutt.’

  ‘Balzac?’

  ‘What now?’

  ‘I’ve found a mobile and it’s turned on.’

  The Mermaid passes it to me. The phone is in camera mode. I press play. Holy shit.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Just wait.’

  I mute the sound.

  ***

  The series of short films shows the Beckfords’ living room. Curtains closed, the standard lamps throwing shapes around the room. Three people as far as I can make out. Maybe four. In the centre, sitting on the white shag-pile rug, a woman in her late fifties, her mouth gagged with what looks like a lacy antimacassar, maybe Mrs. Beckford, maybe her sister, head slumped on to her chest, her legs tucked under her, her arms tied behind. No sign of the dog. The three shapes move around the outside of the picture, never seen, their forms growing in size, then shrinking on the magnolia walls. At times, I get a glance of a finger holding the phone. Female? At other times, the picture, whited out by the light from the lamps, blurs then glows. An arm reaches in and grabs the woman by the hair, makes her look at something. Then another woman, slightly younger, that must be the sister. A figure grabs her and throws her on to the sofa, her legs splayed. Her eyes open. Wide. Staring. Pleading. And then the view obscured as someone moves in front of the screen. Whoever is holding the phone changes it from portrait to landscape, and I see a figure leaning over the woman. Shit! Is that a Stanley knife? Shit, it is. The blade slashes the cushions either side of the woman’s body, either side of her head, catching her hair, her hair falling to the floor. They cut her binds. They cut her.

  The Mermaid watches my face as I try not to show my fear. I have turned down the volume but I can hear the sister’s cries, Mrs. Beckford’s muffled screams, their whimpers, their moans, hear the men’s questions, their threats. The person filming moves around the side of the sofa, and I see a stain blooming in Mrs. Beckford’s beige slacks. One of her sister’s slippers is on the floor, the other hanging off her left foot; a man rises, leans over her, pulls up his right arm as if starting an outboard motor and it crashes down. I hear a stifled crack, a rasping cry. He does it again. And again. Short sharp movements, rhythmical, no energy wasted, as if pumping dumbbells. Another hand moves into the frame and lifts Mrs. Beckford by the hair, forces her to watch, her sister’s face a mosaic of blood and make-up, the intricate mesh of cuts surprises me, then I realise the punches were in fact slashes, he was moving his wrist unseen as if preparing sashimi.

  I rewind. I play the movies back, this time with my ear to the phone. A hand pulls down the gag.

  ‘Where…’ slash… ‘the…’ slash… ‘fuck…’ slash… ‘is…’ slash… ‘your…’ slash… ‘fucking…’ slash… ‘daughter…!’ slash.

  I look again. Mrs. Beckford’s eyes are closing, the man tears the gag from her mouth and she makes a gurgling sound in her throat, a bubble of saliva spills o
n to her chin.

  Another hand moves in, grasps the top button of Mrs. Beckford’s white blouse, pulls. Buttons and pearls from a necklace explode into the air and are lost in the terrible heat of the room. Her beige bra stained brown with sweat. The hand holding the hair joined by another holding a gun, it jabs the barrel into Mrs. Beckford’s breast. I can see its dark-grey snout leaving round indentations in her soft flesh. The hand lifts the gun, places it in the recess behind her left ear. The place where she usually dabs perfume. Not there. No.

  At this point, the screen follows the fall of Mrs. Beckford’s sister’s slipper to the floor. A trickle of urine. Back up and in her sister’s face, close so that the cuts look like canals on Mars, and I can hear her breathing now, panting, liquid murmurs swept back into her throat, swallowed.

  The hand holding Mrs. Beckford’s hair throws her head back and it rebounds from the pink-cushioned chair and drops forward.

  ‘She doesn’t know.’ I hear someone say. London accent.

  ‘Do her.’ I hear. This time, North-East, Newcastle not Walthamstow.

  Another hand – is that the fourth person? Female? – takes a cushion from an armchair, holds it in front of Mrs. Beckford’s sister’s face, pushes down, her legs kick weakly, the stream of urine increases tracked by the screen, then it’s back up, in close again, the barrel of the gun the size of a cannon against the blurred room, then the screen pulls out and I can see the shadows fall back so there is just a hint of them playing around the room like mist, then a muted bang, feathers and blood spray the screen and for a moment everything is a smeared pink, then the screen is wiped on the sofa and I can see Mrs. Beckford’s sister’s face – all cuts seem to be leading to a puckered hole in the centre of the cushion.

  I rub my eyes, get ready to turn off the phone when I hear a dog bark. I look at The Mermaid. She’s been watching my face and there are tears in her eyes.

  ‘Did you hear that?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Thought I heard a dog bark.’

  ‘What happened, Balzac?’

  ‘I think they killed the sister,’ I say, looking back at the phone. The figures are now moving around the upturned furniture, walking into the hallway, turning right, heading to the kitchen. I rewind and put the phone to my ear. A dog barks. It’s coming from the phone.

  ‘Stay there,’ I say, and this time The Mermaid doesn’t follow.