CHAPTER 75 - RED
CHAPTER
Red
THERE ISN’T TIME to worry about accusations, apologies or backtracking. We all know there is only one thing to do before anything else.
Behind the wheel of one of our Transits, I steam towards Putney. This route is on the way to the terraced house in Wimbledon that we’ve not long left, and I thought I’d done with going back this way for a while.
Apparently not.
The veins in my temples bulge as I press harder on the accelerator. I don’t give a fuck if I get a speeding ticket. I’ll run the copper over myself, along with his speed trap if it means I get this cunt and get to the bottom of things quicker.
To my left on the van’s bench seat, Liam and Oscar are priming their weapons. They’re doing mine as well as I’m not wasting a second when we reach the shit-tip Lar Renton frequents.
“Who the fuck do you think it is?” Liam breaks the monotony of the only noise within the vehicle being the sound of the engine. “I mean, who is it within our firm who planted that device?”
“I don’t know,” I mutter. “But we’re about to find out.” Speculating about who the lying, fucking mole on my payroll is achieves nothing. All I want is a name.
It’s a bright day for December. I squint against the sun, a smile inching onto my face. “There’s the shithole.” I’m doing this in broad daylight to make a point - a fucking big one. No one will cunt me off again.
Memories of my second-in-command, Del Carter, and his backstabbing slither into my mind. What he did is never far away and won’t be forgotten. If anyone thinks I’ll allow it to happen again, then it’s time everyone was reminded of exactly who is in charge here.
“What a fucking dump,” Liam sneers as the Transit mounts the pavement outside the Blue Bell, stopping underneath a pub sign hanging precariously by one chain.
I glance at the grimy, blackened windows, a threadbare curtain fluttering through a pane of broken glass. With adrenalin hurtling through my veins, I snatch my sawn-off from Oscar and jump from the van.
“Fucking hell!” A man smoking in the doorway leaps out of our way as the three of us barrel up the weathered steps to the door.
Barging through it, I’m in first. “Lar Renton? Where is Lar Renton?”
The chatter and general hubbub in the taproom cut off like a plug has been pulled. There’s a split-second pause before women scream and men jump for cover underneath rickety tables at the sight of three sawn-off shotguns pointing around the room.
“Where is he?” I repeat, my throat hoarse from the volume I shout at.
This dump is a well-known hangout of certain men - Renton being one of them.
“Fucking frightened, are you, cunt? Because you should be.” I shout to no one as I scan the room.
I can’t see him, but would recognize his weasel face anywhere.
I shove the barrel of my gun under the chin of the nearest man. “Where is he?”
“D-Don’t know. I saw him earlier but...” the man garbles, almost choking on his tongue with fright.
I have no wish to shoot this bloke, but I will if I don’t get an answer. I’m too wired; too fucking furious to be turned over by one of my own again, and Lar Renton has the answer of who that person is. “Where the hell did you last see him?” I hiss through bared teeth.
The silence of the bar would be complete if a scratchy rendition of Wichita Lineman wasn’t playing through the antiquated jukebox.
The toilet door then opens. “What the fuck is going on? I go for a crap and come back out to find the Marie Celeste and...” Lar Renton’s face drops, his camaraderie shriveling and dispersing in the breeze through the broken window.
He moves to bolt out of the back door, but I’m on him and silence his struggles with a swift clump to the side of the head. “Good morning, cunt. I hear you’ve been shouting your mouth off?”
He rubs the side of his head. “Nah, not me. I don’t know what you mean.”
Renton has the cheek to grin, which only makes me worse. “I haven’t got time for this. Best you regain your fucking memory sharpish.”
I didn’t intend to do anything here, but needs must. Just a taster will do. Lowering my shotgun, I point it at Renton’s foot and casually pull the trigger.
As the bullet rips off the best part of his foot, including the first half of his boot, the screaming starts once more, the noise even overtaking the howling coming from Renton’s mouth.
Oscar raises his gun and plants a bullet in the ceiling, which has the desired effect of regaining complete silence, aside from the bloody jukebox.
“Fuck’s sake!” Liam flicks what looks like a piece of bloody toe off his jacket, then pulls the plug on the jukebox. “I can’t stand Glen Campbell.”
Hoisting a white-faced Lar Renton from the floor by the scruff of his grubby pullover, I drag him to his feet, or rather, what’s left of them and then nod to Oscar and Liam. “Get this twat in the van.”
Striding over to the bar, I lean over, spotting a terrified-looking man and a barmaid crouched on the floor. “Sorry about the mess,” I smile. “Send the bill for any damages to me - Red Bateman.”
Helping myself to a bag of pork scratchings, I pick my way through the collection of people huddled under tables and make my way back out into the sunshine with my brothers carting Renton behind me, smearing a trail of blood from his butchered foot onto the quarry tiled floor.
Torturing a fucker to death in the back of a Transit isn’t my usual way of extracting information.
I prefer to be in one of my special rooms within my territory, but time is of the essence.
I need to do this next part quickly before word gets back to the piece of shit mole in my casino, giving them a chance to get away before I can catch up with them.