VALUES
Part Six
15.15
Jean left the bus with Ted in her hand and wandered determinedly back to her home. Her legs were shaking violently and her stomach was making slow, steady flips. But her head was light, and she was determined that this would be the moment that would change history for her and Ted. And for Richard, for that matter.
She wanted to walk into her home, to fall into Visconti's arms, to tell him how much she really cared about him. And then, with the Fingerman behind her, she'd confront her husband. She'd tell him that she was tired of the beatings, tired of having to wear long jumpers to hide the bruises, tired of telling her girlfriends that she fell down the stairs or she knocked her leg on the table. She'd tell him that she had a new man now. Then she'd tell him (and she'd been thinking about this for a long time – it had to be perfect, she reflected, this was history you were making here) that she no longer loved him. She, in fact, hoped that he'd never find another woman again. Because he certainly didn't deserve one.
Jean turned up the pathway of the Camberwell semi, and realised horribly that something was wrong. There were Fingermen stood around in the front garden, muttering and smoking. Yellow bands were wrapped round the door. Occasionally a forensic expert would wander past.
For a moment, for one strange moment, she felt elated. He's finally done it! she thought victoriously. Either he's topped himself, or whatever nutter was after him did it instead. A small part of her was convinced that Visconti had done the heroic thing and taken revenge on him, freed him from her life forever.
"Excuse me, what's going on?" she asked the nearest Fingerman.
The man turned at her, sneered and said, "Is it any of your business?"
"Yes, this is my house," Jean said, exasperated. "What's going on?"
"Oh, Mrs Irons," the man said solemnly. "I take it you haven't heard?"
"Heard what?"
The Fingerman suggested that she send Ted away, and she did as nicely as possible, asking him to wait on the bench in the garden whilst she talked to the nice man. He did as he was told, and then Jean looked up at the Fingerman expectantly.
"It's your husband," he said finally, and a part of Jean fluttered ecstatically. "He went mad. Killed his two guards."
Jean stared blankly at him for a moment, feeling all the joy and the freedom come crashing down around her. Finally, almost incapable of speech, she said, "What?"
"Shot them both dead," the Fingerman said. "I'm sorry. He's down at the station. I knew the deceased. Nice lads."
"Visconti?" she choked. "Is he ok?"
"No," the man said, as if talking to a difficult child. "He was one of the victims. Again, I'm awfully sorry."
"God," Jean sighed, and collapsed on the bench by Ted.
She heard him call up to her, asking her if daddy was ok, but it came through a vague haze. It no longer mattered. All her chances of freedom, of a new life, shattered in one moment. One quick blow. You damn fool.
Unable to take it anymore, she started to sob.
15.30
Richard Irons was led by shunting hands through the bleak, colourless corridors of the Finger's headquarters. Two men at his sides kept his arms held tight, but with the cuffs on he wasn't going anywhere.
"Hey, Mikey," he sobbed. "Mikey, man, it's me. It's Richard. Come on, mate, take off these cuffs, will you?"
Mikey, a stocky man in a shirt and tie, barely flinched.
"Oh, for God's sake!" Richard cried. "We went for a drink just last week! Oh, you can't be serious… come on, man!"
Irons looked desperately at his captors. This was all rapidly descending into some unimaginable nightmare, some strange foggy dream which he expected at any moment to awake from. To wake up in his pale grey room, with that big beaming mask saying, "Feed your head, Mr Irons, feed your head…"
What did that mean, anyway? It was a quote, wasn't it? Some old beatnik band. Female singer. Jefferson Airplane. White Rabbit.
Stop it, man, pull yourself together.
The guard, Mikey, clutched on to Iron's arm and threw him into a small, bare cell. Then, wordlessly, he shut the door and locked it fast.
Richard flung himself at the door, screaming, "Oi! Hey, what are you doing? This has all been a big mistake! I didn't kill them… Wait!"
His words fell on deaf ears as his two guards disappeared down the corridor.
Feed your head. Feed your head.
He slumped back to the mattress and curled into a foetal position.
16.00
Terry Pitt was sat in a dismal roadside café when he got the call.
Outside what had once been a fine day had suddenly gotten cloudy, and the streets were lit an eerie white. No rain yet. Just dim, miserable clouds, stretching on and on. And that weird light.
He wordlessly slid a cigarette into his mouth and lit it with a cheap Bic lighter. Apart from a harangued-looking waitress and a couple of truckers, the café was empty. A TV blared endlessly in the corner, showing a rerun of some dull Northern soap. Fuzzy voices mumbled on in the background as Pitt racked his brains.
This was all a big game, wasn't it? The roses, the warnings, the threats. All a big game and Irons was at the centre. This masked fellow was toying with his prey like a cat with a mouse, pinning him down, convincing him that he had a chance of survival before tearing him up.
He checked his watch, taking a brief drag on his cigarette. A little after four.
Eight hours.
And then he got the call.
A brief rumble in his pocket. Pitt reached for his phone, jammed the answer button and said, "Pitt here."
"Mr Pitt?" The voice was young, a little inexperienced. But recognisable. "It's Dominic, Mr Finch's aide. I've been told to let you know that your man's been arrested."
"Arrested?" Pitt cried, dropping his cigarette to the floor. "What… how?"
"Not sure on the details, sir, but I believe he shot dead two Fingermen."
"His guard." Pitt winced. It wasn't the shock of this happening, it was the fact that none of it made sense. He almost began to wonder if what he was hearing was real.
"I think so," Dominic continued. "Anyway, they've got him in holding down at Finger HQ, if you want to go down and have a word."
"The house," Pitt said. "Did he kill them in the house?"
"Yes. Yes, one of our agents is already there…"
"Send him home!" Pitt cried. "I'll be right there."
He killed the phone, pulled on his coat and ran out the door.
16.30
Jean had sent Ted over a neighbour's house to stay for the time being.
She'd made her mind up. She was going to visit her husband.
16.45
With aching poignancy, Richard reflected on how bizarre this role reversal was.
This time yesterday, he'd been sat opposite this chair, holding a cigarette, well into the interrogation of a suspected homosexual sympathiser. He'd been wiping his own brow of sweat, drinking his own glass of water. And, when the need arose, punching the little queer straight in the jaw.
Had he realised how utterly horrifying it was on the other side, to be the victim, he reflected that, perhaps, he'd have gone a little easier.
"Come on, now, Rich," the interrogator said. Young guy. Probably showed him all the ropes, Rich thought bitterly. "You know we don't like to see our own boy's go down. Confess now, and you'll get off easy. A few years time and then you'll be out, and probably back in your old job like nothing happened. And all you have to do is sign that confession sheet."
"That's bollocks," Richard snarled. "You can't piss me about, I've done this longer than you. Soon as I put pen to paper you'll have me dragged in front of a wall and I'll get the six-gun salute."
"Well, that's fine," the kid said. "You want the truth? I doubt they'd waste the bullets. Not on a murdering git like you. No, way I see it the easiest way to get rid of you would be to let the rest of us have our fun."
With a wide, malevolent smirk the kid walked across the room, to the very desk where just yesterday Richard Irons himself had reached for a confession, and returned clutching a very nasty blade. Long, thin, a blue razor edge. "See," he said with an almost friendly smile. "The boss was rather upset at what you did to two of his favourite agents. You've embarrassed the Finger no end. Why, in fact he's down at the Head as we speak getting his arse chewed by our beloved leader." The kid wandered round to where Irons sat, slowly tossing the blade back and forth in his hand. "If he gets back and none of your blood has been spilt, I'd say my job's just about through."
Irons gripped the chair arms. Come on, he thought. You've been trained to take this. Focus on something else, lock the pain away. It's a known fact that the human body can withstand any amount of pain. So take it like a man.
"What's it going to be, then?" the kid whispered in his ear. "An ear? An eye?"
Irons was ready for the first slash. He tightened up the muscles on his left cheek as the blade came down, leaving a fire-stroke of blood laced across his cheek. A splatter hit his shoulder and he fought back to the urge to cry out.
Fight it, Richard. Fight it. Tears streamed down his cheek.
The kid gently placed the blade against his eye.
"This'll hurt, Ritchie," he sniggered. "This'll hurt a lot."
Jesus, Richard thought weakly, oh, Jesus, think strong, think strong…
"That's enough."
A deep voice from the door. Richard peered up, to see the silhouette of another Fingerman. It was Mikey.
"Come on," he said. "Stop playing around with him. I don't know what Almond told you, but he doesn't want a scratch on him. Not yet. You know the rules." The kid sighed, letting the bloody knife fall to his side. "Go on, take a coffee break."
Mikey walked in and sat in the chair opposite Irons as the kid slunk off. He frowned for a moment, staring at Irons, with his red-rimmed ears and his weeping wound. "You're looking rough."
"Thanks," Irons replied. "Listen, thanks a lot, man, that kid was barking…"
"Don't think I did that for you," Mikey snarled. "I got a call from the Nose. Apparently they want you kept in a decent state for the time being. One of their own agents is popping down. And since the Leader isn't exactly delighted with Mr Almond at the moment, it seems the odds are stacked in your favour. For now."
Two men wandered in and escorted Irons back to his cell.
17.00
The Iron's household looked desolate now that most of the law agencies had left. The doors were tied up with yellow tape and traffic cones blocked the driveway. Inside the lights were off and, in the early dusk dark, it looked cold and unfriendly.
A tired, ill Terry Pitt wandered up the driveway and ducked under the yellow tape. The door lay open. Inside a few pairs of shoes were on the carpet, next to a mat. Children's shoes, adults shoes, slippers. Just an average family's collection.
Pitt sighed and shut the door behind him.
It didn't take him long to see where the bodies had been. Two chalk outlines, one scribbled halfway up the wall, the other lying flat in the kitchen. Two large maroon bloodstains lay beneath them, one of which was splattered up the wall. There were bullet holes in the wall and plaster, and empty shells, circled in chalk, lying around them on the floor.
Pitt knelt down and examined the chalk lines. Looked at their positions. Looked at how the bodies fell.
Ok, he thought. They were shot.
Oh, well bloody done, detective.
He sighed and glanced at the brass badges on the floor, little nametags for the deceased. Ok, he thought. Let's think this through.
He looked at the position of Brown's body and followed him into the kitchen. The kitchen chair, with a large chalk circle round the bottom, was pushed a far way from the table. Half a cup of coffee, dried to a tar, was still sat gathering dust. So, he thought. You're Julian Brown. You've sat down with your cup of coffee, maybe thinking of this and that. You hear a noise. So you get up to see what's going on, and of course, you bring your gun.
Pitt carefully walked across the room, to the edge of Brown's chalk-line. And then this masked man appears, and you open fire, but he's too fast and he shoots back. Sure. The noise of all the gunfire brings Visconti out of the toilet, who also manages to get a few shoots out, none of which hit, before he's shot as well.
But that makes no sense. Besides the fact that none of his witnesses had ever suggested that this character in the mask used a firearm, they were at too close a range. There was no way in hell, however fast he moved, that none of those bullets could have hit. And with both Visconti AND Brown shooting?
Besides, he'd have to have known exactly what firearm the Fingermen used, in order to set up the frame.
Unless, of course, he didn't shoot them.
"My god," Pit mumbled under his breath.
He walked between the two bodies. Looked at the bullet-holes in the wall, in the floor. Looked at how the two men had fallen.
"Oh Jesus," he said. "They shot each other."
He moved back into the kitchen, looked at the coffee. So you're Julian Brown, and you're drinking your coffee, and you're thinking your thinks, and you hear a noise. You reach for your shooter. Pitt began to walk across the room, finding himself staring at the bathroom.
You take a look around. You're a little edgy. Visconti walks out the bathroom. Gives you a funny look.
And then he strikes, leaping between them, and both men open fire, aiming for this man in a mask that moves like a meteor between them. They both miss, riddling each other with bullets. Because, of course, they're standard issue Finger guns, the very kind that Irons would be carrying for self-defence.
Yes, this was a complicated game alright.
Pitt left for his car. He wanted a word with Richard Irons.
17.30
"You have a visitor, Mr Irons," Mikey said, opening the cell door.
Richard expected it to be Jean, doubtless having just found out about this whole thing. Jean would believe him. She'd better bloody believe him, or he'd knock the tar out of her, soon as this Nose chap sorted this whole thing out. He'd taken enough crap today, not to mention the permanent scar he'd be stuck with forever, the one he'd spent the past half hour painfullycleaning out.
Mikey led the Fingerman to the Relative's Room, a cordoned-off block with a long row of seats. There were few people here. The Finger generally liked to keep their prisoners secret. Jackboots on the stairs and all that.
He took his seat opposite another. There was a brief gap, and then Jean Irons was led in.
She looked different, Richard thought as she sat down. More… determined. Angry, even. She stared blankly at him for a moment and then said, "So why did you do it, Richard?"
"Listen here, Jean, before you start throwing accusations at me…" he balked, but Jean wasn't going to give him the chance to tell his sob story.
"No, you listen here!" she cried. "I've had enough of it! I knew you'd crack some day, and I'm glad it's been now ratherthan later, because otherwise I might have ended up killing you myself. And you're not worth me throwing my whole life away to do that."
"Who the hell do you think you're talking to?" Richard cried. "You wait till I'm out of here, you're going to be looking for your teeth, you cheeky mare…"
"No!" Jean screamed. "No, I won't! You're not going to lay another finger on me, Richard Irons! I'm tired of telling myself that I love you when I know it isn't true, and I'm tired of raising my son around you. You're a pig, Richard. A woman-beating pig."
Richard slammed his palms on the glass. "You wait, you bitch!" he screamed. "You wait!"
Jean stood up. "I can wait my whole life!" she yelled back at him. "I hope they take you outside and shoot you, you bastard! I'll be happy to do it myself! It's over, Richard! Over!"
She turned to walk out, sobbing into her hands.
"Yeah, you better run!" Irons yelled after her. "Run back to your home and to that brat of a child of ours. Go on! Because as soon as I'm out you're dead, you mouthy cow!"
The Fingermen rushed in on both sides, one to comfort Jean, who was almost crying into hysterics, and another to lead Irons back to his cell.
As they dragged him away, he made a solemn promise with himself that he'd be avenged on that two-faced bitch. He'd mess up her pretty face with glass, if that was what it took.
Just as soon as he was out.
To be continued…
