Place was tiny, cramped. Wallace could barely stand up straight. How did such a fat man survive in here? He scanned the interior. Little cooker in the corner, some cupboards, bed down the other end. Door leading to a toilet stuck diagonally to fit in. The solitary folding chair made him smile: that could work. Ceiling wasn’t high enough to swing a hammer but there’d be another way. He began searching for information. Found a handwritten receipt for the caravan pitch made out to ‘D. Ellis’. Must have a fake ID or something. A security shift rota for Limes Avenue business units, Penge. ‘Ellis’ appeared every day or two. Wallace found today’s date. Sunday, 25 June: Ellis was on night shift, 7 p.m. till 7 a.m. on Monday. It was about three in the afternoon. So where was he now? Probably at the shop buying all the pies.
Wallace slumped into the chair, pulled his bag up close. Felt his limbs relaxing. A wave of tiredness came over him. How much longer could he keep going like this? Began to wonder if life wasn’t easier on the inside. He was sleeping in a garage, unwashed and stinking, shitting in public toilets, hiding from everyone. And this was supposed to be freedom. Maybe it didn’t matter if he let Ash get away with his betrayal… Immediately, Wallace scolded himself for being a pussyhole. Stick to the plan. It was nearly done, then his new life would start. Just a couple more jobs to do. But he had to stay awake, otherwise it’d all be over. Falling asleep meant getting caught. Not to mention the same old nightmare that would surely come for him, like it did every time he shut his eyes now. The Grim Reaper with his pistol, the agonising trigger-pull.
Reaching into his holdall, he took out the angle grinder. Turned it over, examining the diamond-tipped blade. He’d got rid of the messy one he’d used on Parker, dropped it in a drain. This one was clean, shiny. Wallace flicked a fingernail against it. Maybe he could just wait here for Ash to come back.
He sank further into the chair, closed his eyes. Started drifting.
A child’s squeal outside snapped his head up. How long had he been asleep? Then another sound: footsteps. They were too heavy for a kid. And getting closer.
Time to move.
* * *
‘Sit down.’
Spike motioned Harvey Ash toward the chair. Fat bastard dropped into it, canvas creaking under his bulk. Clutching the carrier bag of groceries like a muppet. His top lip quivered, gaze fixed on the pistol.
‘Put the bag down. I’m not here to hurt you,’ said Spike. ‘I want Darian Wallace. Tell me where he is.’
‘I don’t know.’ Ash’s cheeks were flushed, his breathing shallow. ‘Who are you?’
‘Oi, I’ll ask the questions.’ Spike pulled the Sig’s hammer back with his thumb. It made a satisfying click against the caravan interior’s silence. People always shat themselves when they heard that sound. Muppets didn’t realise you could still fire without doing that. Or that doing it didn’t equal a shot. They just thought the noise meant a round was coming their way. Though sometimes it did, obviously. ‘Where is he?’
‘No idea. I swear, mate.’
He could almost feel sorry for this sack of shit, trapped in a pathetic life, looking over his shoulder for a man he must’ve guessed wanted revenge. ‘You know he’s coming for you.’ Statement, not question.
Ash didn’t reply. Just whimpered.
‘In fact, he might’ve already been here today.’ Spike de-cocked the Sig, nodded left. ‘Door was unlocked when I came in. You leave it like that?’
Ash shook his head, cheeks wobbling.
‘He knows you’re here. You hear how the last two died?’
The fat man swallowed. Spike gripped the pistol in his right hand, fished out a card from his jeans with his left. ‘Got a phone?’
Ash dipped his head. ‘In my pocket.’
‘Leave it there. This is my number.’ He tossed the card into Ash’s lap. ‘I’ll be close by. Get a hint he’s around, you dial it quick sharp. I find him, you get some decent cash. That’s what this was all about, wasn’t it? Money.’
Ash studied the eleven digits. Nothing else printed.
Spike tucked the Sig back into his belt. ‘Plus, I might just save your life. That’s worth a call isn’t it?’
* * *
‘Budge up.’
Zac perched on the bed, one leg over the side. Next to him, Kofi sat propped against a pillow. They opened the battered book of Anansi stories. ‘This was Grandad’s,’ Zac explained. ‘Traditional folk tales from Ghana. Remember?’
‘I like Anansi. He’s an African Spider-Man!’ Kofi mimed shooting webs from his wrists with accompanying sound effects.
Zac riffled the pages, flicked over a few more and held out the book. Kofi began reading aloud. It took Zac several seconds to realise what he’d chosen: the story of Anansi and Brother Death. Psychoanalysis would’ve said the selection was anything but random. Now as Kofi read, the tale took on a new light. Anansi the spider goes into an old man’s house again and again, helping himself to food and drink without permission. One day he brings his daughter to the old man and leaves her there to cook. When he returns, the girl has vanished. Only then does Anansi understand that the old man was Death, and he has taken his daughter. He flees and Death chases him to his own home, where it begins to capture the other members of his family in a sack one by one. All the while, Death says to him, ‘I want you.’ Zac’s mouth felt dry as Kofi reached the end: the spider and his family escape thanks to a trick he pulls, but at too great a cost. Anansi lost his daughter and nearly sacrificed his son, too.
Zac knew he was gambling with big chips. He’d taken risks already – with his career as much as his physical safety – and he’d asked Agyeman to risk prison time acquiring the gun, but it hadn’t yet occurred to him that his obsession might put his family in harm’s way. He didn’t believe in prophecies, but maybe this was a warning from his unconscious.
‘He cheated Death, didn’t he, Dad?’ Kofi giggled. ‘Anansi thought he was going to die and then he escaped!’ He slapped the page in delight.
Zac stroked his son’s hair. ‘It was a close-run thing though.’
‘Why did Death come for him?’ Kofi shut the book.
‘Because Anansi was arrogant and doing something he shouldn’t have been.’
They sat in silence for a moment.
‘Death came for my sister, didn’t he?’ Kofi’s voice was quiet.
‘Yes.’ Zac put an arm around his narrow shoulder. ‘He did. But we never forget her.’
‘Was she doing something she shouldn’t have been?’
‘No, she wasn’t. Someone else was.’
‘Who?’
‘I don’t know.’
Kofi considered this. ‘Where is she now?’
Boateng stood, bent down and tapped his own temple. ‘In here.’ He kissed his son’s forehead then touched it lightly. ‘And in there.’
‘Mummy says she’s in our hearts, too.’
‘Yes, she is.’ They hugged, holding one another tight. ‘Sleep well, son.’ Zac squeezed his hand, then turned to leave.
‘Dad?’
‘Yes?’
‘Will Death come for us too?’
Zac returned to the bedside, held his boy once more. ‘No, he won’t.’ The words felt empty.
* * *
Downstairs, he fired up the tablet and went to YouTube. It wouldn’t be long now: Froggy could come through any day. Had to know who he was up against. If the Anansi story had made him pause for thought, it hadn’t shaken his drive. Like it was too late to pull out, even if he hit the brakes. He clicked and scrolled down videos posted by Froggy to his own channel. Watched three or four, repeating one where guys appeared in the background, faces covered. Hit pause to stare into the masks. Were these the young men who killed his daughter?
‘Hey, baby!’
Zac was so absorbed he hadn’t heard the front door. Etta slung her bag and keys down on the table, beamed at him. ‘Mum and Dad were in a good mood tonight, they only mentioned my brother’s spectacular list of life achievements four or five times.’ Rolled her eyes. ‘Whatcha doing?’
‘Nothing. Just about to watch Match of the Day.’
She took the kettle over to the sink, frowned. ‘It’s June, Zac. Even I know that’s not Premier League season.’
Damn. ‘Yeah, it’s internationals.’
He quickly cleared the last hour’s history and switched off the screen. Stood and embraced her, kissed briefly. As they pulled apart he could see Etta was still looking at the tablet, her smile gone.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Monday, 26 June 2017
‘Zac!’ Etta called down the stairs.
‘Mm?’ Sounded like he had a mouthful of food.
She pulled on the Paul Smith suit jacket. ‘Have you done his lunchbox?’
‘Mm.’ Wasn’t clear what that noise meant.
‘Make sure you put the carrot sticks in for him.’