Into the Fire (9 page)

Eventually, they finished—no bill, I noticed—and made their way to the door, giving me the slightest of nods to indicate that I should follow.

Out in the street I saw them get into this big black limo. I think you must have to have some kind of permit to drive in the City now. You see plenty of official cars, Infinity vehicles, public transport, but I just realized private autos were few and far between. Which means whoever I was dealing with had influence.

They started the motor before I could get to them and slid down the road forty or fifty yards. I guessed they didn't want anyone in the First Original seeing me getting in their vehicle. I caught them up and the big guy opened the back door, neither of them responding to my muted greeting. The Latino floored his foot almost before my ass touched the seat.

Being driven through the smoke-filled streets of the City was to truly appreciate what kind of world we'd come back to. We went for block after block and there was nothing, just islands of burned debris with ash swirling around them, blackening people's faces and clothes. Occasionally we were forced to make a detour, even turn around once or twice, as fires exploded into the sky before us. You wanna talk about Hell? The City fitted the description perfectly. And to think I'd once believed nothing could be worse than the Island.

The other thing it was impossible to ignore was the number of zombie-sick around. I don't know what percentage of the population they represented, but in some areas they were obviously the majority. They looked so weak that even the effort of stretching one foot in front of the other was too much for them; I watched one slowly move his leg forward and hit the ground, looking as if he thought his foot might break. I also couldn't help but notice that a lot of the “authority” figures, even everyday Specials, were wearing masks like the camera guy in the supermarket had, presumably to protect them from contracting “zombie-sickness.”

But all this was no more than a backdrop to what was going through my head: I'd jumped at the chance of this job partly 'cuz I'd feared it was the only one I'd be offered, but now I was starting to wonder if I'd been a little too hasty. Who knew who these two worked for? I hadn't met anyone from the old days, but that didn't mean they weren't around, and actually, when I stopped and thought about it, there were some worrying possibilities. If I'd wanted the money for any other reason but Lena's operation, I wouldn't have gone anywhere near this.

When we arrived at the house of the client, I felt even more uneasy. It was massive and forbidding, with two huge and hungry-looking dogs patrolling the garden. Whoever I'd come to see was obviously someone feared and respected.

For the second time since returning to the Mainland, I was escorted in through the tradesmen's entrance; through the kitchen to a hallway, where I waited while the bigger guy went to talk to his boss.

He didn't make any attempt to lower his voice. I heard him quite clearly making a joke at my expense, saying I was just the man for the job, that I'd frighten the hell out of anyone.

There was a pause while I waited for the boss' reaction, to hear what he had to say.

“Okay. Bring him in.”

In that moment, it felt as if a sinkhole opened up inside me, that all my insides were sucked down into it.
No . . .
It couldn't be—

It says a lot that I hadn't thought about him, hadn't so much as mentioned his name, in more than ten years. I mean, the way things have been, all that time the satellites were in control, I thought he would've moved on, maybe even died, but obviously not.

It's a weird thing having a half-brother, especially when he's the only family you've got. It's the part you don't know that makes you distrust him, and the part you do that confirms your suspicions. I was thirteen before I even knew he existed. He just came up to me one day in the street, leaned right into my face and sneered, “Hey, I'm your big brother.” I didn't have a clue what he was talking about. He was quite a lot older than me, and twenty or thirty pounds heavier, and shit to admit, pretty intimidating. I didn't know what to say, ended up just shrugging and walking on, hoping he wouldn't follow. The next thing I knew I was flat out on the ground, blood pouring from my forehead, with him on top of me yelling about showing my “big brother” respect.

I thought he was crazy—an escaped inmate from the local nuthouse, until I got home and told Ma, who immediately went all
quiet and thoughtful on me. She headed off to her bedroom and I realized there was more to this than I'd imagined.

I never saw the old man as the cheating kind—the beating kind, sure, the bitter-and-twisted kind and, on the odd occasion, the joking and crooning kind, but then again, if you get drunk that often, I guess at some point you're gonna be just about every kind going. Turned out he'd had his fair share of affairs, most of them no more than a block or two from our home. He was never the most energetic of individuals, couldn't be bothered to play further away—perhaps he preferred to save his strength for lovemaking. During that period, he managed to father a couple of kids with different mothers. Ma never actually knew what was going on, not for certain, though for sure she had her suspicions, but she decided just to turn a deaf ear to all the whispering. After he died, it became even more important to her that she didn't
know
, that she didn't have her whole life undermined. It was my misfortune to unknowingly put an end to all that make-believe.

I don't know what it was about Ray, maybe he had a hang-up about being illegitimate, but once he'd introduced himself—once he'd started to terrorize and torture me—he just wouldn't stop.

Every day on my way home he would catch me somewhere and give me a good beating. It got so bad you could actually follow the trail of blood on the sidewalk to my home. But, no matter what he did, how hard or often he hit me, I always tried to get him back, feeling that bit better if I could get in one good shot, maybe even give him the suspicion of a bruise. Though that was a problem too: if I did, it just made him even more angry, even more vicious.

I stuck it for a while, in the way you often do when you're a kid, 'cuz you think you got no choice, then one day I got these books from the library, 'bout working out and different martial arts and stuff. It took me almost two months before I finally managed to nail him. That afternoon, I used this move I'd been working on over and over and not only dumped him on his ass but gave him a black eye too—a real big, bright purple shiner. 'course, he went crazy,
beating me up so bad I had to go to hospital, but at least I had a brief moment of revenge.

The only problem then was, how was he going to react? The next time I saw him, was he going to maintain this new level of fury? 'cuz I gotta tell you, I wasn't sure I could take it, not on a regular basis. A couple of days later he brought a friend with him and they beat me up good and proper—split my lip, blacked both eyes, cracked my ribs—but, do you know something? It didn't matter. In fact, I almost smiled my way through it, you know, 'cuz I knew I had him, that if he needed a friend to help him deal with me now, it could only be a matter of time.

I can't tell you how sweet my eventual revenge was, the day I left him lying unconscious on this patch of waste ground, still cursing him as I walked away, even though he couldn't hear me.

I didn't see him again for ten years and by then I was working for Mr. Meltoni, learning the tricks of the trade, running some pretty sweet little numbers, or so I thought. Though actually, at that age, you're not really thinking, just enjoying the ride.

There's only one problem with being top dog—there's always someone sniffing around, baring their teeth, wanting to take a piece out of you.

We got to hear about this new gang moving into the area, real mean sons of bitches, prepared to do anything to get themselves a reputation. They carried out a couple of high-profile killings—well, more like massacres really, taking out Mr. Meltoni's clients' restaurants as well as the customers who happened to be in them. But it wasn't that that upset so many people, it was Francesca Cassano. She was only five, cute as hell, the daughter of a banker. They kidnapped her, and when he didn't come up with the ransom fast enough, hung her from the bridge over the expressway for everyone to see. In fact, the suspicion was that they never intended to negotiate, that all they really wanted to do was enhance their bad-ass reputations.

When we found out who was to blame, I was pretty sickened to hear Ray Ormerod's name—I mean, no one was sure who'd
actually
done the deed, but I knew that son of a bitch well enough to know
he was capable. In no time, a turf war broke out; they'd take out one of ours, we'd take out two of theirs and vice versa. It could've gone on forever if Mr. Meltoni hadn't come up with this really smart plan. He knew their boss, “Frenchie” Martin, had a few horses and that he doted on this one in particular—Dancing Boy. He really loved that animal; nothing was too good for it. It had a stable a dozen Detainees would've been proud to call home. If it'd been Dancing
Girl
, I reckon he would've slept with it every night.

Mr. Meltoni managed to get to one of their stable boys and have Dancing Boy poisoned—'course, it wasn't that that was so clever, it was knowing how Frenchie would react. He was heartbroken and insisted on a massive funeral for the horse, with all the pomp and ceremony of a king or president. The only thing was, that same stable boy scooped out some of Dancing Boy's insides and stuck a bomb in there.

You ain't ever seen anything like it. There was this special graveyard up in the hills, complete with church and properly ordained minister, for the pets of very rich owners, and every one of Frenchie's guys was ordered to turn up to say goodbye to Dancing Boy. It needed a dozen of his strongest, including Frenchie himself, to act as coffin bearers.

Mr. Meltoni detonated the bomb from his limo up on the highway. There was the most almighty explosion, this loud
kerrump!
and, not to put it too indelicately, body parts flew everywhere, horse, human, who knew? God knows how they put them all back together, how they divided things up for all the funerals that followed. Maybe they didn't bother, just did it by weight.

It became a bit of a joke around the neighborhood—horsemeat salad and French dressing—yeah, I know, not exactly in the best of taste, but that's how we people are, we like to make jokes about death, to prove it don't really frighten us.

We thought that would be an end to it, but it's times like that, when there's a power vacuum, that those not prepared to do the work to fulfill their ambitions sometimes seize the initiative.

It didn't take him long. Within six weeks, Ray—who, at the moment the bomb went off, had been behind the church taking a leak—took over what little remained of Frenchie's operation. A year later no one was mentioning Frenchie Martin anymore; it'd become Big Ray's gang. And yet, to my surprise and I guess, his credit, he didn't return to the path of confrontation; he let it be known he wanted to talk to Mr. Meltoni.

I had no choice but to go along and listen to their discussions, to see that piece of shit try to elevate himself to the same level as my boss, my only comfort being that I was sure Mr. Meltoni would put him in his place.

But do you know something? Crime is just another business. When it comes to making money, to doing the right thing for the “company,” people are prepared to overlook anything. It's the same with politics. International relations, beliefs and morality are one thing, but money always speaks a damn sight louder. People will lie down with anyone and forget all manner of evils and atrocities as long as there's something in it for them.

They worked out a deal where they could focus their energies on taking care of their individual businesses and not on trying to kill each other: Mr. Meltoni let Ray have the parts of the City he never really got to grips with—places like Chinatown, where he felt cultural differences made it too difficult—and from then on, they became the best of friends—well, like I said, this is business, so they
acted
like the best of friends. Nevertheless, there was no choice but for me to go along with it, to occasionally welcome Ray and his boys to Mr. Meltoni's home, even pour him drinks and stuff.

You can imagine how much he enjoyed that—how he went out of his way to humiliate me whenever he could. I never told Mr. Meltoni he was my half-brother, I mean, as far as I was concerned, he wasn't; I would've denied it to anyone, God himself couldn't have tortured it outta me.

The last time I saw him was when Mr. Meltoni died, right after the funeral. He approached me in the parking lot, came over to offer
me a job; said it would show continuity, that his rivals would be less likely to wage war against him if I was involved.

I don't think he believed me when I said I'd had enough, that I was going straight. Maybe he thought I had ideas of my own, or perhaps he was just incensed at me having the gall to turn him down. One way or another, he got really ugly, telling me I was too stupid to do anything else, that I had no education, no other experience, that I'd end up on the street. Which, did he but know it, turned out to be right on the button. That was the reason I got sent out to the Island—but I'd still rather have what I had over there than carry on living the life of a criminal.

In the end I just turned and walked away from him, like I did that first time we met, leaving him screaming after me, cursing me from the window of his limo as he was driven away, telling me that if I didn't join him, I was against him, and I'd be taken care of.

I never saw him again. Not from that day to this.

I thought about turning around and running out of there, getting away from that place as fast as I could, but I guess I hoped I was wrong, that after all those years how could I possibly be sure it was his voice?

I was beckoned into this rather palatial room, all gilt-edged this and velvet that, and in the middle of it, like some unwelcome sore denying the existence of all beauty, sat this huge old man I instantly recognized.

He looked utterly grotesque, slumped in this wing-backed chair, his heavy chin on his chest, a few strands of long, greasy hair flopped across a flaky scalp—a comb-over he'd given up on long ago. His complexion was so red he looked like he was covered in a rash. But none of this mattered in comparison with the leg he had propped up before him. You wouldn't have believed the size of it: it was like some monstrous bandaged mummy. I could see his left leg was also swollen, but the right one was almost twice its size.

I just stood there, waiting, knowing my appearance, the changes over the years, could only hide me from him for a few seconds. It
was almost comic: one moment he was staring at me like I was a cross between a curio and a clown; the next this expression had collapsed to be replaced by recognition.

“
What the fuck
, Van?” he yelled.

The Afro-Caribbean guy looked at the door, as if he thought someone else had come in. “What's the matter?”

“Is this who you brought me?”

“Yeah.”

“
Jesus!
”

“I thought he was perfect—”

“What the fuck do you want?” Ray demanded, turning on me.

“A job,” I said simply, deciding to bluff it out.

“You gotta be kidding.”

There was a long silence, no one quite knowing how to react, Ray expelling these grunty little noises while he tried to collect himself.

“You said someone unknown who looked like he'd frighten the hell out of anyone,” the Afro-Caribbean guy protested.

“Fucking idiot!” Ray snarled. He paused for a moment, staring at me, taking in my appearance. “What the hell happened to you? Where you been?”

“Around.”

“You stink,” he said, wrinkling up his nose as if he'd just caught his first whiff of me.

I never said anything, but a look came into his eyes and I knew he'd worked it out. “You're an escaped Detainee!” he exclaimed.

I didn't deny it, which was all the proof he needed.

“All this time you been out on the Island!”

“So?”

“Jesus!” he cried, somehow managing to heave the many folds of his face into a twisted smile. “You ended up on the Island! After all those high-and-mighty words! Best news I had in years.”

To my surprise, he started to laugh, this kind of sickening gurgling, like he was rolling rocks around in his throat, and his two guys, plainly relieved to see it, joined in.

“What happened to your legs?” I asked.

He immediately stopped, glaring at his propped-up leg as if it was something alien to him. “Rotting,” he told me. “Rotting and poisonous. One day they reckon they might swell up so much they explode.”

“Isn't there anything they can do?”

He shook his head. “It's not just my legs—it's taking over my whole body. Nothing can stop it. Germs have developed a resistance to our resistance. Less than twenty-five percent of antibiotics work now.”

“I'm sorry,” I said, with very little conviction.

“Sure you are,” he said, adjusting his leg.