Nirvana Bites (25 page)

We pushed through the familiar front door. The panel for the entryphone hung loose from the wall. A concrete ramp led down to the lifts in the basement. If neither was working, we were sunk. We half dragged, half carried Stan down the ramp. We were both breathing hard. Sweat was trickling down the inside of my leathers. I wasn't ideally dressed for this job. What
would
the well-dressed abductress wear? Not a leather fucking mini-skirt and a tight corset, that's for sure.

The lift whined in response to my stab on the button. We bundled Stan in and propped him against the wall. He slid down to land on the floor in a pool of piss. Ali and I leaned against the sides, panting as the lift clattered and wheezed its way up to the top floor. We avoided each other's eyes.

The doors crashed open and we dragged Stan's body out. He groaned, his eyelids flickering in protest. We came out on to a square landing, with shit-brown floor tiles and slightly paler walls. There were four front doors – brown, of course. A rubbish chute gaped in one corner, greasy food scraps, battered cans and bottles spilling from its open mouth.

At the end of a short corridor there was a flight of iron steps leading up to a hatch secured by a heavy padlock. Ali pulled a crowbar from the canvas bag and weighed it in his hand almost lovingly. That crowbar had seen action. It had been used to break into numerous empty properties ripe for squatting in its time. This was the first time it had been used to break
out
of a building.

Ali climbed the stairs and levered off the padlock. It crashed on to the iron steps and clattered down their length. We froze, but there was no sound from behind any of the brown doors. The occupants were probably either too stoned or too scared. Or maybe they just didn't give a shit.

As Ali heaved up the hatch, a black square of night sky filled the gap. There were only ten steps, but they were steep and narrow. It was hard work dragging Stan up them. It was lucky we didn't feel the need to be too gentle. The most difficult part was bundling him through the hatch. I came up last and emerged into the drizzle.

In the centre of the flat roof was a concrete structure, housing the lift motor. A forest of aerials and satellite dishes rose from an undergrowth of syringes, used condoms and crushed beer cans. On each corner of the roof, massive arc lights in heavy black casings warned low-flying aircraft to keep their distance. They threw a harsh white light that turned the scene a ghostly shadow-filled monochrome. The soft darts of rain flashed across the steady beams like vertical interference on a TV.

The roof was bordered by a waist-high wall with a single rail on top. We dragged Stan over to the edge. I took a length of industrial chain from the toolbag, and unclipped the handcuffs from the loop on the shoulder of my jacket. I clamped one end of the cuffs to Stan's ankle and the other end to the chain. I rummaged in the bag again and found a heavy metal crampon – the sort climbers use to secure their ropes – which I used to snap the other end of the chain on to the rail.

The cold and damp were beginning to penetrate Stan's stupor. He mumbled something unintelligible, rolling his head on the concrete. I walked over to Ali and stood next to him. The city looked almost beautiful at night from this vantage point. You couldn't see the loneliness or the bitterness, the poverty or the grime. The noise of the traffic and the occasional siren's wail all sounded very remote.

‘You ready?' I breathed, surprised at how steady my voice was. They were the first words either of us had spoken since leaving the transit. In response, Ali thrust his arms out at right angles and threw his head back in a crucifixion pose. He gave an abrupt nod and together we advanced on Stan.

He was semi-conscious and struggled weakly as we hoisted him under his arms on to the wall facing us. Ali and I each held on to one of his arms to stop him toppling over backwards into the abyss. The slack chain looped down from the railing to the cuff on his ankle.

I shook him roughly.

‘Stan. Stan, wake up. Can you hear me?'

His head lolled, but I could see he was coming round. His eyelids fluttered then opened. Just a slit at first, behind which his eyes flickered, looking for something familiar to fix on. Then wider with confusion as he focused on first me, then Ali. Then popping with terror as his fuddled brain took on the full impact of where he was, who he was with and why.

‘Jesus Christ. JESUS CHRIST! Get me down from here! You maniacs! Get me down!'

‘Shit, Stan,' I replied in a mild tone, ‘I'd have thought even you would have the sense not to insult the only people standing between you and a twenty-storey drop.'

‘Ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod,' Stan moaned. ‘Please don't do this. It doesn't have to be like this. What is it you want?'

‘You know full fucking well what we want, Stan. We want answers. This is the end of the road. Nowhere to run and nowhere to hide. So start talking.'

‘W-w-what is it you want to know?'

‘OK. Why don't we start with Gunther?'

Stan's breath was rasping in his chest. If we didn't kill him, the Gauloises would. His voice came out unnaturally high as he feigned innocence.

‘Gunther? What about him?'

I gave him an impatient shove. He screamed and clung to my arm, his fingers scrabbling to find a purchase on the leather. Ali stood impassive, holding Stan's other arm.

‘Don't fuck with me, Stan. I've met Gunther, right?' I turned my face so the merciless white beam of the arc light illuminated the damage to my right eye. ‘So you see, I've got nothing to lose.'

He gulped hard. ‘Gunther – Gunther was my lover.'

‘And?'

‘And, I – I tried to finish the relationship. He went crazy. He was insanely jealous…'

‘So you're telling us all this shit has come about because of a lovers' tiff? Do you really expect us to believe that?'

‘You have to believe me,' Stan begged. ‘It's true. I swear. He was psychotic. You've met him. He's capable of anything…'

‘How long had you been together?'

‘About six months.'

‘How come no one on the Scene ever mentioned you and him being an item?'

‘He was paranoid about secrecy. We never went out together. I just thought it was part of the game…' he wailed.

‘You must have known early on that he was dangerous. So how come you decided to end it when you did?'

‘He – he got really intense. He wanted me to come out. He couldn't see I had a position to maintain. My family, my friends and colleagues – they have no idea. I had too much to lose…'

Stan disgusted me. What he had to lose was a cosy little candyfloss coterie – one bite and it would melt away. For a moment I almost sympathised with Gunther. Then I remembered how little of this was true anyway.

‘And that's it, is it?'

‘Yes. Yes. I swear. Now get me down from here. Please,' he implored.

For a hideous instant, I was assailed by doubt. Could it be that simple? So why all the secrecy? Why couldn't he have told us this in the beginning? Gunther wasn't one of the Mitchell brothers who had tried to abduct Stan. And I was pretty sure he wasn't one of the guys who had attacked me under the bridge…

Stan sensed my confusion and decided the moment had come to assert himself. It was a mistake.

‘Look,' he said, his voice cracking with attempted authority. It's not easy trying to be masterful when your teeth are chattering. ‘You've had your fun. You've made your point. So now get me down,' he ended on a wail.

‘Fun?
Fun, you bastard?' I yelled. ‘You think we've had
fun?
We've been battered, threatened, vandalised…'

Stan snapped. He was terrified, of course. It must have distorted his judgement. No one could be that stupid and insensitive under normal conditions. Perhaps, having been terrorised by an expert like Gunther, he didn't realise how serious we were.

‘Oh, for fuck's sake,' he exploded. ‘You and your precious bunch of self-righteous sanctimonious, pratty little friends. You think you know it all. You think you have the monopoly of the moral high ground. But what do you really know? You're spongers, the lot of you! What do you contribute to society? Nothing! Not a thing!'

So there you have it. Just because you produce cutting-edge documentaries and have a stapled dick, doesn't mean you're alternative. It was suddenly crystal clear how come Stan in his straight alter ego could be married to a woman who made Ann Widdecombe look like Rosa Luxemburg.

I felt that strange calm descend on me again. I looked at Ali. He gave a tiny shrug and nodded his head. We moved as one. At the same moment as we each tore our arms from Stan's desperate grasp, we placed our other hands flat on his chest. And pushed.

With a shriek, Stan toppled backwards. For a split second, he couldn't have known his fall wouldn't continue for over two hundred feet. The chain clattered over the railing, ending in a stomach-churning jerk as it snapped taut. There was a nasty thud as Stan's body ricocheted against the side of the building. I found myself wondering if the force of the chain could have dislocated his hip.

Ali and I leaned over the edge. Stan was flailing wildly, his arms below his head, desperate hands searching down into the depths. He was gibbering with fear.

‘Oh shit. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Oh please. I'm so sorry. Please. Please. Oh Jesus. Oh sweet Jesus.'

‘Right. Now listen,' I snapped. ‘You answer each of my questions. And you answer them clearly and truthfully. Don't even think of insulting my intelligence by fobbing me off with any more bullshit. You got that?'

‘Yes. Oh yesyesyesyes,' he slobbered. ‘Anything. Only please pull me back up first.'

‘No way. OK. So why did Gunther really go crazy?'

‘He – he found out I was producing a documentary about an international fascist base being set up in London. I didn't know he was a Nazi. I swear. I mean – he was into all the paraphernalia, but I just thought it was an image…'

‘Go on.'

Stan retched. ‘Look, please…'

‘Go on,' I shouted.

‘There – there was a leak. These people aren't skinhead bootboys. They're respected, sophisticated, powerful. They have all kinds of contacts – the police, the judiciary, big business… Oh shit. I think I'm going to be sick,' he wailed.

‘Better hurry up then, hadn't you?' I replied, showing no mercy.

He gulped a few times.

‘When – when Gunther found out I was behind the documentary he went crazy. That part was true.'

‘So where did Della fit in?'

‘Della introduced us. Gunther thought it was all a set-up so I could get inside information for the programme. He thought I was using him. He must have thought Della was in on it. But I swear I never knew he was involved. I swear. It was just a coincidence.'

So there you go, Gaia. Coincidences do exist after all. Except she'd still say it was their karma. And she'd probably be right.

There were a couple more questions I needed answered.

‘How did Gunther and his mates know you were at the co-op?'

‘I don't know. I swear. They – they must have followed us back from Docklands…'

That didn't sound right. I remembered how empty the streets had been. I was sure we'd have noticed if we were being followed. On the other hand, I was prepared to believe Stan might not know the answer to that one. And I wasn't sure how much further we could push this without causing him irreparable physical damage. Not that I minded, but I didn't want any messy inconveniences – like his death – to deal with.

‘OK, Stan. Last question, then we'll get you up. What's the connection to Koi Korner?'

Stan stopped flailing. ‘Koi Korner? I don't understand. Gunther recommended them… He persuaded me to keep fish.'

Click
. The final piece of the puzzle slotted into place. I could tell from the bewilderment in Stan's voice that he had no idea of the significance. I locked eyes with Ali.

‘Stan – this fascist conspiracy business – where's it operating from?'

‘We…
gasp
…we hadn't found out yet. We'd narrowed it down…
wheeze
. We reckoned either Eltham or Newham… Oh please. Please. For pity's sake…' he moaned.

So there you have it. Stan had had teams of researchers working for months, getting paid awesome amounts by our standards. Yet in less than one month we had dug up information they hadn't even come close to.

It all made perfect sense. Koi Korner would have to be seen as operating a legitimate business with a respectable clientele. Gunther had manipulated Stan into becoming one of those clients. No wonder he'd freaked out when he'd heard about the TV programme. He'd assumed the steel toecap had been on the other foot and Stan had been the one doing the manipulating. Gunther must have thought he'd led Stan straight to the nerve centre. What he hadn't reckoned on was Stan being too stupid to recognise it – let alone manipulate the lead out of him.

I checked Ali again. I could see by his face he'd come to roughly the same conclusion.

'Anything I've missed?' I asked him.

Again the impassive shrug, this time accompanied by a brief shake of his head.

‘OK then. Let's get him up.'

Easier said than done. We leaned over as far as we dared and told Stan to reach up with his hands. He flapped about until we grabbed hold. Terror lent steel to his grip. For a moment I thought he might pull hard and yank us both over the edge. If he did contemplate it, he must have thought better of the idea.

Ali and I each grabbed a foot and a hand. We dragged, scraped and hauled Stan up the side of the building and over the rail. He crashed down on to the roof and lay sobbing in a foetal position.

Ali picked up the toolbag and we disappeared back through the hatch. As the lift clattered downwards, I allowed myself the luxury of visualising Stan's next few hours. He would be able to unclamp the chain from the railing, but he had no way of removing it from the cuff round his ankle. So there's this guy, wearing a leather bodysuit cut away to reveal a red-striped arse; an enormous leather codpiece; and a chain round his ankle. No money, no credit cards, no mobile. Trying to get home from the middle of an estate on the Old Kent Road.