Author of Pain- Minor Mayhem Read online

  Nichols cursed under his breath and exhaled. "Old fool," he said in English, as he always did when he was alone. He pursing his lips irritably then remembered where he was and looked up at the novice, just in time to see the remainder of the colour in the young man's face drain away.

  "You alright, boy?" Nichols asked back in Italian mode. The young novice was deathly white and Nichols could see a sheen of sweat had broken out on his forehead and the kid looked like he was going to pitch over at any moment. "Boy?" He said a little louder.

  The novice finally looked up at Nichols with a look on his face like the priest had just appeared out of thin air, his mouth moved but nothing came out. Nichols snapped his fingers. "Still with us?" The novice nodded slightly but was still dumb. "You want to sit down before you fall down, you look terrible." Nichols said, then added as an afterthought. "If you're going to be sick, use the bin over there."

  "No, thank you, Father," the novice replied weakly. "Do, erm do you have a reply for the Cardinal?" He was clearly concentrating on getting every word out coherently. Then he actually swayed slightly.

  "No, you get yourself off and get some fresh air. I'll speak to the Cardinal myself. Off you go." Before you pass out on my office floor, Nichols thought but kept it to himself.

  The novice nodded and left without another word. Nichols stood and watched bemused as he half-walked, half-ran from the room. "José?" He shouted and Father Mendez appeared in the doorway holding a file.

  "You bellowed?" The older priest said and gestured to Nichols with the file. "You know, there might actually be some useful stuff in here, I swear I don't know where Perelli finds this stuff."

  "He's a hoarder," Nichols said still looking after the novice who had now disappeared. He screwed up the Cardinal's note and threw it in the general direction of the bin.

  "Good news then, Peter?"

  Nichols gritted his teeth. "The old fool, he won't let me take it until the paperwork's cleared. Paperwork! Can you believe it?"

  "It is priceless, Peter," Mendez said calmly.

  "It's not like I'm going to leave it on the bus or something!" Nichols slumped back down into his chair telling himself to calm down. "I need it, José. If the reports are true, I won't be able to do a damn thing without it."

  Mendez sat on the edge of the desk. "I agree, but why not wait until they let you take it? Shouldn't be more than a couple of days, a week at the most. His Holiness is in South Africa at the moment, but he's back on Wednesday, I think."

  Nichols shook his head. "I can't, they're over there on their own as it is. I'm still flying out on the third, regardless. I have to. I'll go see the Cardinal myself. I'll steal the damn thing if I have to."

  Both men stood in silence for a moment, then Mendez smiled. "I bet you would too."

  "No one believes, José," Nichols said flatly. "No one believes anymore. But I've seen what they can do, seen it with my own eyes." Nichols let his voice drift off as he remembered that night so many years ago that had changed everything. Thanks to a tramp seeking sanctuary and the woman with the impossibly blue eyes. As it always did when he let himself remember, the memory of her warmed and terrified him at the same time.

  ***

  The novice sprinted up the final set of stone steps and out into the sunlight, the sudden rush of fresh air made his stomach flip and he thought for a moment he was going to throw up. He leaned against a stone pillar gasping and held his face up to the sun, oblivious to the strange looks he was getting from those around him. He thought someone spoke, asking if he was alright, but the voice seemed a million miles away. His legs finally gave way and he slid down the pillar.

  There were definitely figures around him now, silhouetted against the blue sky, someone was shouting for a glass of water, another to give him some room. The sun was blinding him now so the novice screwed his eyes tight shut. Now he knew why no one wanted to go down there. And as the conclusion to the crime scene report flashed into his mind's eye again with sickening clarity, he swore that he would never go down there again, not even if the Pope himself asked him.

  The attack, the report had concluded, had been carried out by one perhaps two large wild dogs. Simple enough were it not for the fact that someone had crossed out 'one perhaps two wild dogs' and added next to it their own conclusion as to the attacker's identity. One word in red ink: Demon?

  FOUR

  When Larry McCulloch had been at the top of his game, which seemed a lifetime ago lately, he had spent a blissful six months staying at the Hilton Hotel in London, all expenses paid courtesy of a real life Arab oil sheik he was working for selling fake Saudi land rights to British and American oil companies. It had been a good gig while it lasted, but like so many of his ventures had ended in a mini bloodbath at a London nightclub one late November evening.

  Larry had, of course got away Scot-free without a scratch and twenty grand in used tens and twenties. The Sheik hadn't faired so well, being tortured to death and all. The truth of it was he was a real Saudi Sheik, of sorts, but didn't own a grain of sand over there let alone the acres and acres he and Larry had sold. So it had all come to a bloody end, but hey, at least the food at the Hilton had been good. Larry had put on half a stone while he had been there.

  So where did it all go wrong this time? Larry mused as he prodded a folk at what Lewis had laughingly referred to as a full English breakfast, which was laid out in state on the plate in front of him. Lewis was sitting opposite him reading the paper. He peeped over it. "Larry, you've hardly touched that, what a waste. Starving children in Africa, etcetera, etcetera. Don't tell me you're a vegetarian?"

  "Oh, that's what this is?" Larry said still prodding. "Sooo, this black charred stuff must be... No no, don't tell me. Toast? And the rubbery yellow and white thing? Come on, help me out here."

  Lewis sighed and put his paper aside. "Play nice," he said and took the plate from in front of Larry and dumped its contents straight into the bin, after rescuing a piece of toast for himself.

  Larry picked up his mug and looked into it. "And your coffee, which I assume this lukewarm black liquid is, tastes like shit."

  "That'll be the arsenic," Lewis said taking a bite of toast. "Should kick in, in a few minutes by the way."

  "I'll look out for it." Larry said draining his mug. He hadn't seen Peroni or the kid Jeff all morning and wasn't relishing the thought of another fun filled day cooped up in the house from hell, especially with only Lewis for company. And he was getting increasingly frustrated at the lack of movement on the deal. He had been here two days already and there was no sign of the so-called man from the ministry they were all waiting on.

  He was having serious doubts about the whole thing, which wasn't helped by the fact that he had been unable to contact his no-good solicitor Tommy Whitaker, since Larry had been moved from Scotland Yard. He made a mental note to try the slippery bastard again later. Whitaker was another one who would pay for all this shit he was having to put up with, disappearing of the face of the earth whilst he was stuck here.

  Larry looked across at Lewis who had started doing the dishes. Christ, he thought, the guy was supposed to be a government bodyguard and all he ever seemed to do all day was the housework! That and taking great pleasure in winding him up. More than anything though, Larry hated the lack of control, he could deal with most situations if he was pulling the strings. But here he felt like the puppet, and it scared him. Still he mused, what with the stress and Lewis's cooking he would at least lose a few pounds. But still, he missed the Hilton.

  "Here, Lewis. So just how long and I going to be subjected to your dubious company for anyway? Where the hell's your boss?" Larry asked.

  "Don't ask me," Lewis said with a shrug. "I'm just a little worker ant, they never tell me anything. What's the matter Larry, eager to spill your guts?"

  "No. Just to get away from your ugly mug. And also I'd like to talk to him about how I'm being treated around here. Why couldn't have I been put up in a fucking hotel, like they
agreed?"

  Lewis turned to face him, drying his hands on a tea towel. He studied the old crook for a moment. "This again? Now, correct me if I'm wrong, but didn't you come running to us after all your gangster pals turned on you?"

  "I didn't go running to anyone." Larry said coldly.

  "Really?" Lewis looked amused. "That's not what I heard. I heard you really crossed the wrong people this time. The bad men are coming for you, Larry. You need us more than we need you."

  Larry wasn't having that. He put one elbow on the table and jabbed a finger at Lewis. "Bollocks! I can look after myself. I'm just waiting for the best hand, that's all, and it's coming, I can feel it. I didn't survive for this long just to get dead in some dingy doss house like this." He relaxed his posture. "I'll die, aged ninety in sunny Brazil. Or maybe Greece, yeah, I've always liked Greece."

  "Really?" Lewis said. "Tell you what, I'll make sure they bury whatever's left of you out there. How's that?"

  "All I'm saying is wait and see," Larry said and held his hands out defensively. He saw Lewis's face darken so he added a sarcastic grin as punctuation.

  Tossing aside the tea towel Lewis took a seat opposite Larry and fixed him with a steady gaze. He drummed his fingers on the table as he studied McCulloch. "I've been reading your file," Lewis finally said. "You should write a book, colourful life, to say the least. Always one step ahead, always ready to sell your soul to the highest bidder. And always on the winning team, no matter how many times you have to switch sides, eh Larry? No matter what that team might be?" He paused, but never took his eyes off Larry then said, "your Mother must have been so proud."

  Larry shook his head and gave Lewis a look like he thought he was simple in the head. He leaned back and folded his arms. There was no way he was going to let this little shit intimidate him, if anything he found it amusing he was even trying. He took his own sweet time before answering. "And it just eats you up, doesn't it?" Larry said softly. "Sure, I've played dirty all my life, and yeah granted I might not be at my best right now. But you know, don't you Lewis? You know deep down, I'm gonna come through this whole fucking mess set for life."

  For once, Lewis's reaction was not what Larry expected. Over these last couple of days he had learnt exactly how to get Lewis's goat, the young man hated Larry, but hated even more the fact that he had to protect the 'bad guy' this time, even at the expense of his own life. But this time Lewis just smiled and had a look of genuine pity in his eyes. Larry frowned without realising it. It was a look you would give to a dog before putting it out of its misery, an 'I know something you don't' kind of thing. And it made Larry feel distinctly on edge.

  Then Lewis leant forward with a look of pure mischief on his face. "All I know is that I'm on the right side, Larry. And that's good enough for me. Whatever happens over the next few days, in the end you'll be just another anecdote. Sure I might be dead, but I'm at peace with that." He said it with such genuine sincerity it unnerved Larry all the more. "But you?" Lewis continued. "You'll be just another lowlife who thought he knew it all." He lowered his voice for effect. "You know those shadows?" His voice was barely a whisper now, and Larry found himself leaning forwards to hear. "The ones that keep you awake at night? I know what's in them, Larry. And I've got a feeling, sooner or later so will you."

  "What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Larry blurted out and sat back, annoyed with himself for being drawn in.

  A grin snaked its way across Lewis's face, he was enjoying the moment. "I'm just saying that's all. I know what's coming for you. And I'm not sure we're going to be able to stop it when it does."

  "Lewis!" Both men jumped, the voice was sharp and Italian. Peroni was standing in the kitchen doorway with a face like thunder. Lewis was about to speak but she cut him off. "That's enough! Out, and relieve Jeff, he's in the car. Now!" She jabbed her thumb back over her shoulder. Without a word Lewis got to his feet and sheepishly left the room staring at the floor as he went.

  "What's his problem?" Larry said wondering what the hell had just happened.

  Peroni's face lightened a little. "His problem? Why Larry his problem is all of ours. Just what in the world are we going to do with the infamous Larry McCulloch, huh?" With this Peroni turned on her heel and disappeared back through the door, leaving a bemused Larry to curse the day he'd ever agreed to this lunacy.

  FIVE

  The concierge of the Manchester Hilton watched the scruffy old bag lady trying to negotiate the revolving doors with mild amusement, and he knew as she finally managed to squeeze her considerable bulk and baggage into the reception area, that unless she was an eccentric millionaire, he was going to have to kick her right back outside again before she stunk up the place.

  On a good day he may have pointed her in the direction of the kitchens in the alley around the back of the hotel, but today had not been a good day. Two double booked suites and a bar fight had seen to that. So Mrs. Shopping bags better flash her gold card or she'd be out on her arse and he would at least feel a little bit better about his shitty day.

  The bag lady waddled up to the front desk and plonked her bags down, she muttered something about the freezing weather and her aching legs then looked up at him. He braced himself for that old lady smell of dirty clothes and week-old piss, but the concierge was surprised that she actually smelled of lilac even though her clothes looked dirty and worn, and he forgot for a moment that he was supposed to be throwing her out.

  "Are you dumb, boy?" She said in a surprisingly educated if harsh voice. "Or are you hoping to catch some flies with that gaping maw of yours?"

  The concierge closed his mouth and it crossed his mind that she may actually be some kind of upper class nutter. "Can I help you?" He said lamely.

  "Well I fucking hope so, sparky. I'm here to see Thomas Whitaker." She gave him a look of thinly veiled disgust.

  He shook his head, her language catching him of guard. "I'm afraid that won't be possible," he hesitated at using the word 'madam'. "I'm unable to divulge information as to who we have staying here. If you had an appointment..."

  "Just get him on the phone, I know he's here, but he's properly using some other name or other." She thought for a moment. "Marcus Carver, he said he was using the name Marcus Carver." The concierge glanced at the register. "D'you want me to spell it for you, sweetie?" She added.

  And there it was; room forty-seven. Someone had drawn a little smiley face next to it the way they always did when a guest was obviously using a false name.

  "I'll have to ring up, just to make sure, erm Mister Carver is excepting guests."

  "Christ on a bike!" She exclaimed loud enough to make him flinch and several people in the lobby turn their way. He fumbled with the phone and punched in the room's telephone number. He was hoping that Carver, or whatever his name was would pick up straight away. He had an uneasy feeling about this woman and wanted her gone as soon as possible, and despite how he had felt when he'd first seen her struggling through the door, he didn't want to have to tell her to get out anymore. She may have been old and short but that look in her eye actually scared him.

  He stood there sweating with the phone clamped to his ear for what seemed like an eternity until finally a weak voice answered. "Yes?" It was barely a whisper.

  "Erm, yes, Mister, erm Carver? This is the concierge, calling from downstairs." He swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry, the bag lady was boring a hole into his head with her icy gaze. "I have a lady here to see you, sir."

  He heard a sharp intake of breath. "Describe her," he said.

  The concierge felt physically sick at this, she was still staring at him, her eyes narrowed.

  "What did he say?" She asked.

  "He, erm, he asked me to describe you..." His voice trailed off, Carver may as well have asked him to tell her to go fuck herself.

  She let out a shriek of laughter and put her elbows on the desk, she grinned revealing a mouth full of gold teeth. "Go on then, describe away."

  The concierge swayed,
he felt faint, which made the old woman shriek again. "Huh, don't worry," said the voice on the phone, "I'd recognise that cackle anywhere. Send her up."

  "Oh thank Christ!" The concierge said out loud before he could stop himself. "You, you can go up, Miss. Room forty seven, the lift's right over there." He gestured to his left.

  He was about to hang up when the woman slammed her hand on the desk. "Hey, not so fast. I want two lobsters and a bottle of Champagne sent up, Whitaker's paying."

  "I heard her," Whitaker said through the phone. "Get her whatever she wants."

  "Yes sir," The concierge said hanging up.

  "And it better be the fucking good stuff, not some old piss poured into a vintage bottle, understand?" The old woman narrowed her eyes suspiciously.

  He nodded vigorously. "I'll order it straight away, madam."

  She snorted at this and waddled over towards the lifts muttering obscenities. Watching her go, the concierge thanked God she hadn't asked him to carry her filthy bags up for her. Yes he said to himself, this was one shitty day.

  ***

  "First things fuckin' first, Tommy. What the fuck are you doing in a place like this? Low profile!" She wasn't even in the room yet and she was tearing a strip off Whitaker. He stood there holding the door open and just took it. "You've got the world and his dog looking for you, so where do you hide?" She continued. "The fucking Hilton! I suppose because it's out here in the provinces and not London, you thought no one up here would know who the fuck you are? Is that it? You numb bastard."