CHAPTER 1
Philip Mason hunched his shoulders into his jacket and peered through the steady drizzle. He glanced behind him but the car seemed to have disappeared. He must have imagined it. Ahead, in the darkness, loomed the disused mill where the others waited. The closeness of its abandoned hulk increased his unease and his steps faltered as he approached the arched entrance into the courtyard. Liam, following a pace behind, barged into him and his head bounced off Philip’s solid shoulder.
“What you stopped for?” Liam examined his crushed cigarette before flicking it away. It hit the glistening cobbles, releasing a shower of sparks.
A feeling of dread weighed Philip down and, seized by an overwhelming urge to turn back, he studied the darkened building. The broken windows and boarded-up openings showed as darker shadows in the monolithic bulk. Philip tried not to imagine empty eye-sockets in a skull.
“Come on, Phil. I’m getting soaked.”
Dismissing a sense of foreboding, Philip shook himself and clambered over the low gate, before leading the way across the courtyard towards the entrance to the basement. The door resisted before opening with a creak, and an earthy odour enveloped them. Philip hesitated; the dark cavern absorbed the faint moonlight. Sensing Liam’s impatience, Philip made his way down the stone staircase. The darkness intensified with each step and at the bottom he paused, inhaling the stench of decay. A rustle, and a small, quick animal scuttled away from them.
“Whooo, spooky,” Liam said, and shuffled forward.
Despite his apprehension, Philip recognised his friend’s false bravado. The desire to turn and run gripped him, but it was much too late to back out now.
“Where the fuck are the others?” Liam demanded. “I’ve got better things to do on a Sunday night.”
A bright light clicked on, blinding Philip. Loud voices shouted incoherent instructions. Even though he expected this reception, Philip’s heart jumped. Four shadowy shapes rushed Liam, and Philip watched, disconnected, as the figures forced his friend into a chair.
“Take his arm.” Mugisa’s order jerked Philip into action.
He grabbed Liam’s right arm. On the other side, Asif fought to hold him. After a few seconds, Liam’s struggles subsided and, once he’d stopped shouting, Anthony recited the charge.
“Liam McLaughlin, you are charged with stealing from the brotherhood.” Anthony’s voice shook.
“How do you plead?” Mugisa demanded.
“Fuck off,” Liam said. Spots of spittle sprayed Philip’s cheek and the stink of stale cigarette smoke filled his nostrils.
Mugisa paused before responding, “The prisoner pleads guilty. We will consider the sentence.” He stepped into the shadows and held a muttered conversation with the other two.
Liam’s breathing reminded Philip of a cornered animal, but he couldn’t let his sympathy for his friend weaken him. Liam didn’t deny his crime. He’d even boasted about how much he got for the video’s he’d stolen from them. The discussion finished and Mugisa came closer.
“The punishment for betrayal is death,” Mugisa intoned with utter conviction.
Liam tried to jerk free and Philip hunched over to get a better grip of his wrist. In the ensuing silence, Ryan giggled. Even in the gloom, Philip sensed the cold glare from Mugisa, and the laughter faded.
Liam turned to Philip. “Phil, let me go,” he whispered. “Please.”
Philip stared into the darkness. A machete had materialised in Mugisa’s right hand, glinting in the torch-light as he advanced. Liam stopped struggling, mesmerised by the blade. Philip had always dismissed Mugisa’s claims of his violent past as bravado, but not any longer.
“You’re fucking cracked, the lot of you.” Liam’s struggles resumed and his wrists jerked, sweat making the skin slippery. “You’ve had your laugh. Now let me go.” His voice rose. “I’ll give you the money.” Mugisa continued implacably and in desperation, Liam said, “I won’t say anything to Ritchie.”
Mugisa towered over him, machete raised high.
Liam moaned and slumped in the chair. Philip relaxed his hold and, as if seized by an electric current, Liam jerked. Philip managed to hold on but Liam ripped his left arm free of Asif’s grip, swinging the fist at Philip. With a wet smack it hit his eye. The shock and pain made Philip cry out and reel away.
Liam ripped his other arm free and lurched to his feet. A blow on the side of his head made him stagger and his hand flew to his neck. Blood welled up between his fingers. Philip stared, numb, and for what seemed like minutes, nothing moved in the room.
Liam grimaced in pain. “You fucking bastard. You’re dead.” Still clutching his neck, he staggered towards the exit, pausing at the bottom of the stairs. “Ritchie will have the lot of you!”
Mugisa reacted first and pointing the machete, yelled, “Stop him!”
Liam shot up the stairs. The fear which helped him break free spurred him on. At the top of the stairs, he crashed through the doors and out into the open air. Philip blinked to clear his vision and tried to control his breathing, unable to believe what had happened. The faces of the others reflected the shock gripping him. When nobody responded Mugisa lowered the machete.
“We have to stop him getting away.”
Philip said, “What you going to do?”
“Stop him causing trouble.” Mugisa strode towards Philip, his voice rising.
Philip stayed put, his pulse racing and he clenched his fists. They stood toe to toe in the gloom. Although well matched in size, Philip had never dared challenge Mugisa. “What? Say, ‘Sorry I cut you Liam, keep quiet about it?’”
“It was an accident. If you hadn’t let him go, he wouldn’t have been hurt.”
The rebuke stung and Philip’s retort died on his lips. He groped for something to say as Mugisa’s glare bored into him.
Then Asif said, “If he tells his uncle, we’re all fucked.”
This broke the spell and Mugisa led the way. The four of them collected their bikes and set off up the stairs. Philip hesitated for a few seconds before following. Liam needed his help.
Liam ran through darkened streets lined with boarded-up terraced houses. His heart pounded and fear blocked his thoughts. The wound sent shards of pain through his neck and jaw. Blood dripped onto his shoulder. How bad was the cut? He didn’t dare stop to check. His steps faltered and he studied the houses. None showed signs of habitation. He must have turned the wrong way. He had to get away before the others arrived.
Liam charged into an alleyway, past piles of stinking rubbish. His breath came in short gasps, scouring his airway. Why the fuck hadn’t he listened to Philip nagging him about giving up smoking? A stitch spread from his side, almost making him forget the pain from his cut.
He paused and listened but could only hear his ragged panting and the pounding of the pulse in his ears. More blood dripped, coating his shoulder. A wave of nausea and light-headedness made him stagger and he placed a hand on cold damp brickwork. He made a decision and went left, searching for signs of life in the rows of empty houses.
A light flickered from an upper window. Energised, he started towards it, but a mountain of rubbish blocked his path. Frantic to find another way in, he retraced his steps and dashed into the street, revived by the prospect of refuge.
The light wasn’t visible from the front and he hesitated, trying to work out which house it came from. A distant shout alarmed him, but his strength seemed to be draining away and a mass of hot pain radiated from his neck. Resisting the urge to rest he hurtled back the way he’d come. He plunged down the dark alley, crashing into obstacles as his legs betrayed him.
At the end of the alleyway he paused, resting against the brickwork and listening. His vision swam and his strength ebbed until he didn’t think he could go on. A whisper came from behind him and a shadowy figure moved. Energy jolted through Liam and he ran on Bambi legs. After three steps his left foot slipped sideways, and wind-milling his arms, he fell. He crashed into the nearby wall. Shockwaves jarred his skull and flashing light filled his vison. He bounced off, slamming head first onto the cobbled street and into merciful blackness.
Mugisa dismounted and propped his bike against the wall. He unclipped his light and shone it at the mound in the alleyway. Liam lay on his back, his clothes filthy and dishevelled and a grimace frozen on his face. Blood pooled at the side of his head. Mugisa hadn’t thought the wound fatal, but he’d seen enough bodies to not need to check. Lights flickered and the others arrived together, halting a few yards away, shock and disgust distorting their features.
What had they expected? They had to share the responsibility. Mugisa passed the machete to the nearest one. “Cut him.”
Anthony’s eyes widened with fear and he pulled his hand away, letting the blade clatter onto the cobbles.
“Pick it up,” Mugisa hissed, “and hit him with it.”
Anthony hesitated but then obeyed and edged towards the prone body as if approaching a deadly mamba. He took a breath before swinging the blade. Mugisa snorted his contempt — the blow wouldn’t have sliced a strand of elephant grass. Anthony gave him a fearful glance before landing a second blow to Liam’s torso. The other two took their turns. Asif went last, then dropped the weapon. Mugisa retrieved it, filled with disappointment at their weakness. At least Philip wouldn’t let him down.
Footsteps pounded the cobbles and Philip rounded the corner, slowing when he got closer. He opened his mouth to speak but stopped, staring at the body at their feet with horror. Mugisa stepped forward and thrust the handle of the machete at him. Philip knocked it away then ran.
Mugisa hefted the machete and returned to the body. He wiped the blade on Liam’s coat and returned it to the scabbard under his jacket. His disappointment at Philip’s behaviour turned to anger.
Philip’s long strides devoured the ground, but he knew the others would soon catch him on their bikes. The horror of what he’d seen threatened to overwhelm him but he mustn’t panic. He should have stopped to help Liam. But he must be dead, with all that blood round him. Mugisa’s pitiless expression made his legs weaken, but he tried not to think, just concentrate on running.
After some minutes, lights appeared ahead. He’d reached one of the main roads that led, like the spokes of a wheel, from the city centre. Even at this time of night there would be traffic. His shoes, not made for running, chafed, and anticipating reaching safety he slowed, limping towards the street lamps.
A faint sound from behind made him spin round. A figure on a bike was almost on him. The image of Liam’s bloody body gave him a jolt of energy. He ran. The skin on his neck tightened in the expectation of a blow.
In a few strides, he arrived at the refuge of the well-lit road and faced his pursuer. The cyclist halted, waiting at the edge of the ribbon of light. In his panic Philip couldn’t identify him. Instead, he peered into the distance, hoping for signs of a vehicle and safety. Headlights approached, and he ran into the middle of the road, waving his arms.
The driver slowed and hope made Philip giddy. Then the car swerved, passing him with horn blaring. His pulse thrashed in his ears and he looked back. Four figures waited in the shadows.
CHAPTER 2
The pupils rose as the teacher gathered her books and scooped them into her satchel. Shafts of bright sunlight shone through gaps in the thatching. She checked the time; it was past twelve and she had under an hour to get to the next school. The children chattered at the prospect of escaping the confines of the classroom.
She focussed her stern gaze on them and they fell silent.
“Now children, remember, we have a test tomorrow. You won’t forget to do your homework?”
“No, Miss Kitumba,” they responded, The Boy leading the chant.
“Do you all have your books?”
“Yes, Miss Kitumba.” Twenty-two small hands shot up, each holding a thin bundle of grubby papers.
“Good.” She paused and looked over their eager faces, unable to resist The Boy’s infectious grin. Of all the children she taught he showed the greatest promise. “Okay, then you may go.”
They made for the door and she smiled as they shot out of the hut like a flock of startled guinea fowl. Some made straight for home but others stayed near the schoolhouse and The Boy organised them into two teams.
In a homestead four hundred metres away, The Boy’s mother studied her daughter preparing the cornmeal and smiled. At twelve years old, Sanyu was almost a woman and her mother knew it wouldn’t be long before she had to marry.
The girl noticed the scrutiny and faced her mother, a question in her eyes.
“Your little brother will be home soon. You’d better get his lunch ready.”
Byron Mason listened to the hubbub of fellow drinkers enjoying their Sunday evening before the start of the working week. Dark walls and subtle lighting combined with a cheery log fire to create a welcoming atmosphere. Despite being in London, the pub could have been in any remote English country village. Tenderness filled him as he studied Louisa, their unborn child not yet showing. She caught him staring and winked. As if at an unseen signal, the conversation at the table paused and the other four people stared at him. His cheeks grew warm and they burst into laughter. The women gathered their handbags and rose to their feet.
“I’ll have the same again.” Louisa stroked his nose as she passed him, her shoulder-length blond hair brushing against him.
After giving him their orders, the other women followed her. Byron regarded his wife with a mixture of pride and affection. Tall, and with a good figure, she excited attention from the other men in the room.
“I’ll get these, Byron. You’re celebrating.” Glen sprang to his feet.
“Nonsense, it must be my round by now. I haven’t bought a drink all night.” Byron gathered the glasses and stood up, his eyes smarting as he entered the smoke layer. They’d had a smoking ban in California for three years, and he couldn’t wait for them to introduce it here.
“I’ll give you a hand.”
With Byron leading, the two men shouldered their way through the crowded room. He smiled, listening to the conversation and laughter. Half a head taller than most of the other men and with the build of a heavyweight boxer, he received his share of admiring looks.
While they waited to get served, Glen said, “That was out of the blue, Byron. Lilly’s only just one. Are you ready for two rug-rats?”
“I’m not getting any younger. I want to have a few kids and still enjoy life after they’ve left home.”
“A few. Have you discussed this with Louisa?”
Byron’s laugh rumbled across the bar. “It was her idea to have another one now.” He grinned at the thought of their second child. “Both Louisa and I come from big families and we don’t want Lilly to grow up without brothers and sisters.”
“Doesn’t always work out though.” Glen studied him in the mirror behind the bar.
Thoughts of his siblings made Byron pause. “It’s up to us to make sure it does.”
“So you reckon it’s your mum and dad’s fault? This thing with Samuel—”
“You know nothing about it.”
“What I do know is my dad regretted not talking to his brother until it was too late. Like I told you, you should get in touch. You’ll only—”
“Leave it, mate.” Byron’s good mood evaporated.
“It’s not just you now. Lilly’s got cousins, she has a right—”
“I said, leave it.”
People each side of them edged away.
“Okay, okay.” Glen took a step back and held up his hands. “Let’s not fall out.”
Byron’s reflection in the mirror behind the bar returned his frown. “Sorry, mate, we’re supposed to be celebrating. Let’s get these back or the girls will wonder where we are.” Maybe he could try to build bridges with Samuel next year before the millennium ended. Although whether his brother, or his wife, would be open to an overture was another matter.
They left the bar, clutching their drinks, and Byron spoke over his shoulder. “How about you two? You’d make a great dad and neither of you are getting any younger.”
“I’ll tell Imogen you’ve noticed her wrinkles.”
Byron nudged him in the ribs and they both laughed.
“What’s so funny?” Imogen demanded, smiling and taking her drink.
Byron grew hot. “Nothing. Just messing around.”
Glen deposited the drinks on the table and said, “Byron said he was going ‘oop north’ to visit his brother in Manchester.”
Louisa stared at Byron, open-mouthed. At that moment, Byron knew he wasn’t going. Samuel had to make the first move.
The loud click from the speaker above the hatch into the kitchen announced another fire-call and Firefighter Adam Sterling groaned with frustration. He wanted to be busy, but this was the fourteenth shout of the night and he still hadn’t finished the evening meal he’d started six hours earlier. He wolfed down another mouthful of chilli, now a congealed mess following several trips to the hotplate and rushed to the engine house as the piercing notes of the siren faded away. The others waited on the first pump.
“Come on, slowcoach,” Station Officer Reid said.
“Sorry, Boss. I had to have food, I’m bloody starving.”
“Gannet,” Mal observed, to laughter.
The pump lurched out of the engine house and Adam stepped into his boots before pulling up his leggings. The vehicle raced round the first corner and Adam braced himself, glancing across at Mal, his partner for the night. With over twenty years’ service, Mal was ‘senior man’ and the team leader. Adam noticed he’d already dressed and was struggling into the straps of his breathing apparatus set.
“You’d better hurry, Adam. It’s just around the corner.”
A rush of adrenaline energised Adam and, thrusting his arms into the sleeves of his tunic, he fastened the zip. The two pumps made their way through deserted streets, and blue lights reflected from windows as they glided past. The brakes hissed and the pump came to a stop. Eager to see what awaited, Adam slid across the bench seat and followed Mal out onto the pavement, the heavy cylinder on his back making him clumsy. Just behind them, thick black smoke poured out of an opening above the front door of a terraced house. A mixture of excitement and apprehension made Adam’s pulse race.
“Okay, lads. Go under air. Mike, check round the back. Pete, get the sledgehammer,” Station Officer Reid said, his voice calm.
Adam started up his set and the comforting flow of cool air passed over his cheeks. He pulled the head-straps tight and took a deep breath before putting on his helmet and following Mal along the line of hose which had sprouted across the pavement. Mal reached the end and picked up the branch plugged into it, releasing a blast of water into the gutter. Adam seized the tail of hose and concentrated on trailing Mal. The voices and sounds of the pumps merged into the background. The splintered remains of the door lay beside the front steps and Mal crouched in the doorway.
