A noise close behind her, startles her.
Glancing back, Nancy Byrne strains to see through the darkness. Staring down the long, narrow alleyway that she’d just hurried down, there’s nothing there. It was just her mind playing tricks on her. The eerie silence all around her magnifying every creak and rustle.
There’s no one there! she tells herself firmly. You’re being paranoid, Nancy. You’re a Byrne. Man the fuck up and start acting like one. She berates herself, purposely ignoring the shiver of trepidation that trickles through her as she eyes the flickering street lamp much further back. The eerie strobe effect only highlighting the dark shadows that dance beneath the thick mist of rain that pelts down.
Cursing herself. What was she doing out here on her own in the middle of the night, walking the towpath of Brentford lock at this ungodly hour of the morning?
Of course there is no one else out here.
All the sane, normal people of London are tucked up safely in their beds, asleep, it seems. Just where she should be. She is soaked through too, she suddenly realises, as she sweeps her hair out of her eyes. Strands of it sticking to her forehead, wet and limp against her clammy skin.
When had it started to rain?
She hadn’t even noticed until now, so consumed by her heartache and grief that she was oblivious to anything going on around her. The black tailored suit that she wore to her father’s funeral today – yesterday now – wet through, clinging to her tiny frame. She is just exhausted. She hasn’t slept for days. She needs to get home, to crawl safely into her bed.
That thought almost makes her smile at the irony at her sudden need to get back there when, just a few hours ago, it had been the one place that she hadn’t been able to escape from quickly enough.
Home.
With its swarms of well-wishers and so-called friends of her father’s that had all out-stayed their welcome back at the house for his wake.
Her father’s murder had sent shock waves across their entire community. His sudden demise changed everything, and Nancy had seen it in all of their faces. How the looks of sympathy passed between them as they repeated the same old clichéd words of condolence. As if saying how sorry they all were for her father’s sudden death, how shocked at the brutality of it all, would somehow make Nancy and the rest of the family feel less burdened by their loss.
Then there were all the stories she’d been forced to sit through. Anecdotes of the Infamous Jimmy Byrne. Tales that even Nancy had never heard before. Each one more elaborate and embellished than the last, as if everyone was trying to one-up each other on who knew him better, who was closer to him. Every unknown tale only expanding the ever-growing gap between her and her father; so much so, that Nancy had begun to feel as if she’d never really known her father at all. She wasn’t alone.
No one had really known her father, and that was the sad truth of it.
All the lies he told, the secrets he kept.
Her whole world had exploded. In just a few short weeks, everything that she thought she knew had crumpled around her to nothing.
That’s when Nancy had escaped. That’s when she’d left them all to it. Just as the walls had begun closing in on her.
Though out here, away from them all as she walked in the cold night air, she was feeling just as claustrophobic.
The blackness and silence closing in on her too.
She needs to get herself straight, she thinks. She has to, for the sake of her family and for the sake of her father’s businesses. It was all going to be down to her now and walking around London under darkness would be the least of her worries. Her father had lived his life on a knife edge. Enthralled by the danger and violence of London’s criminal underworld, he’d become the notorious Jimmy Byrne. A kingpin of a world built on crime and violence. He’d built himself an empire, together with his business partner, Alex Costa, buying out numerous properties and businesses across London.
Nancy knew where most of her father’s vast wealth came from. She wasn’t stupid. He liked to call it his import and export business, though really they were shipping drugs. Large quantities of cocaine which were being distributed all over London. That’s what had placed her father firmly on the map as one of London’s most legendary, feared faces. He’d had an army of men working for him and he’d made sure that his family had all reaped the rewards of his success over the years.
Nancy had been blessed.
Living a lavish lifestyle in a big mansion over in Richmond. Herself and her brother’s education had been paramount to her father. Insisting on enrolling both his children in one of the best private schools that money could buy. Her grandparents and mother had all wanted for nothing either. Her father had set a precedent. Only the best cars, the best food, the best life for his family. Nothing was ever too much for any of them.
That all fell on Nancy’s shoulders now, as she had known it would eventually.
That’s why her father had involved her in his business dealings from such a young age. Letting her run his books for him, and balance up his accounts. Showing her the ins and outs of some of the deals he made. He was getting her prepared for her inevitable future of taking over the family businesses. The infamous Byrne Legacy. Though neither of them had ever imagined that any of this would have happened so soon.
Hearing a bird flying above her, Nancy looks up. It will be morning soon. She must have been out here for hours, she thinks. So lost in her thoughts, in her grief, that she’d completely lost track of all time. Though, she takes comfort from the fact that the night’s sky will be replaced with dawn shortly.
The darkness is starting to freak her out. Playing tricks with her mind. Making her think that she can see and hear things that are only illusions. She’s just being silly, she knows that. Though no amount of scolding herself can stop her heart from beating so wildly inside her chest. No matter how hard she tries to convince herself otherwise, she is unable to shake the feeling that someone is following her.
Of course no one is following her. She’s just being stupid, paranoid. She’s walked the length of Brentford’s canal towpath and hasn’t seen a single soul for miles, as if she was the only person out here tonight.
Which she might be, she thinks warily.
Up until now there’d been nothing but an eerie silence. Unworldly in London, she thinks, to not even hear the noise of traffic whizzing by somewhere off in the distance. Still this had been exactly what she wanted earlier: to be alone with her thoughts so that she could try and get her head straight. Only it has backfired, it seems. It is too quiet now. Walking around in the pitch-black dark is starting to make her feel anxious.
At least earlier, when she’d strolled through Richmond High Street and up past Kew Gardens, past the pubs and late night wine bars that had long ago shut up, after turfing out the last of their intoxicated customers, there had been people around. In their droves. The noise and joviality of the people she passed had only irritated her further. Reminding her that life goes on.
Nancy had only wanted to disappear then. To hide away somewhere on her own, to silence their loud chants and laughter. How dare everyone around her be so happy when her world had ended?
Strolling along the canal, consumed with her thoughts and memories of her father, as she’d eyed the reflection of the moon shining down onto the water’s surface, as if following her, for a short while, she’d felt as if she had company. Being alone had helped. Only, her mind had started running away with itself. Her grief had started to eat away at her.
She just couldn’t get her head around the fact that her father was really dead. That he’d never be coming back. This was real. He was gone forever. That image that she had of him splayed out on the cold ground of Tilbury dockyard ingrained in her mind. Murdered in cold blood.
Death would always be tragic when a loved one was concerned, she imagined, but murder was simply soul-destroying. So unjust, so cruel. Her father’s life snatched away in a heartbeat. Her dad, just taken from her.
There would be no grief, no mourning for her now, Nancy knew that. There couldn’t be, not until the murderer was punished for ripping her father away from her life so viciously.
How could one action, one gunshot, rip someone’s life clean away and in turn, destroy hers too?
Leaving her completely broken.
Shivering, Nancy blinked back her tears. She’d vowed not to cry. Not yet. Not until her father’s death had been avenged. And it would be avenged, there was to be no doubt about that. She would see to that personally. Reminding herself of all of this, Nancy fought to regain her composure once more.
Breathing more freely again now. Furiously, in fact, as she gulped down huge lungfuls of air, continuing her way towards the end of the alleyway, her grief quickly replaced with anger.
More than that. A hot, burning rage inside of her. That was the most fucked-up part of all of this. Nancy knew who pulled the trigger.
She knew who killed her father.
Which was all the more reason why she’d needed to be alone tonight, to clear her head. To gain some clarity on all the thoughts that consumed her as she walked for what felt like miles. Alone in the dark, passing canal boats and bridges, then further along, the old abandoned warehouses. The huge piles of litter and junk that had been dumped there. Shopping trolleys, old bikes. Rubbish everywhere. It had felt a bit like a ghost town.
She hadn’t realised how far down she’d ventured until she stood alone outside one of the abandoned depots. She remembered how her father had brought her here once as a child. How he’d told her that the Grand Union Canal went all the way from Brentford to Birmingham. Nancy hadn’t known how far that was back then, but her father had made it sound impressive.
Unlike the reality of the canal path today.
The run-down buildings, dark and desolate. Her eyes drawn to the broken windows. Boarded up, mostly, though some windows were smashed and exposed. Who knew what or who was lurking about in the squalor around her? Using the old buildings as crack dens or squats. Peering out at her through the pitch-black gaps that used to be glass. Who was she kidding, pretending to be all big and brave?
She’d felt foolish then and scared suddenly, walking around out here all alone in the dead of night. The place seemed so sinister. Unsafe. If anything happened to her, she’d thought, no one would hear her screams. No one would even know she was here. So she’d turned off the towpath; she’d taken a short cut through the long, narrow passageway that led back out onto the main London streets.
Only now she is here, she can’t shake the feeling that she isn’t alone at all.
She is being followed.
Picking up her pace as she continues, Nancy wills the daylight to come. Walking so fast that she feels out of breath, her lungs tightening inside her chest.
Looking up, even the moon has abandoned her now. Nowhere to be seen. She hopes that it is still up there somewhere, hiding in the night sky behind the tall wraiths of the trees that thickly line two towering walls either side of her. Still floating along beside her.
That was a joke. As if the moon was going to bring her any real comfort.
It is just her now.
Or is it? she thinks as the noise comes again.
Louder this time. Nearer.
A creaking behind her.
She moves quicker, not bothering to turn and look behind her. She doesn’t need to: what she needs to do is get the hell out of here and fast.
She is almost running. Out of breath, her chest burns but it isn’t her pace making her lungs constrict inside her ribcage. Concentrating on her heels clicking loudly against the cold concrete beneath her, she homes in on another noise behind her then. There is no mistaking it this time.
Footsteps.
Recognising the crunch of a stone underneath a heavy footfall. This time the sound directly behind her, she is certain of it.
She turns, half hoping that she can berate herself once more for being so weak and pathetic. Only, shaking her head, as if doing a double take she homes in on the large dark silhouette of a man just a few yards behind her, and she realises she isn’t being paranoid at all. His huge frame is lit up by the flickering street lamp further back. Dressed in black, a hood pulled up around his face.
He was so close now that he could almost touch her. Hurt her?
Catching a flash of his steely glare as he lurches towards her, she recognises the malice there.
Nancy runs.
Her heart thuds so loudly inside her ribcage that it feels like it will explode out of her chest. Stumbling unsteadily in her heels, she silently curses herself for not changing into something more comfortable before she left the house tonight, as she fights to stay upright on the uneven pavement beneath her. Her feet are swollen and sore from walking for so long. Though, in hindsight, she hadn’t foreseen being chased down a dark alley by some scary-looking madman.
Ahead of her, she can see the break in the wall of overgrown bushes and trees that line the alleyway. She is almost there. Almost back out on the main road. Back out in civilisation, and the well-lit Brentford High Street. Only another thirty yards or so to go. She’ll be safer out there, she can call for help. Only, she is out of breath and her assailant is gaining on her. The pounding rhythm of her heart thuds inside her ears, matching the footsteps that pummel the concrete behind her.
SLAP SLAP SLAP.
Whoever it is, they are so close now that she can almost feel them. She can hear them breathing. Panting.
When the blow that she has been dreading finally comes, it floors her, slamming her body down onto the cold, wet pavement. Nancy lets out an almighty scream as the air explodes from her lungs with the force of the impact. Her face is smashed against the uneven ground, a hefty thud as her head makes contact with the pavement, the pain making her cry out once more.
Desperate to get up, to get her attacker off her, she realises that she can’t move, weighed down by the enormous, heavy bulk of the man on top of her, pinning her down to the ground as she struggles for breath. She turns her head to the side, fighting for air. She licks her lips, feeling the warm liquid streaming down into her mouth from her nose, recognising the metallic tang of blood.
Another pain then, searingly sharp as her head is yanked back. Screaming once more, as her attacker wrenches her up by a large clump of her hair that feels as if it will rip from her scalp.
‘Get off me.’ The words leave her mouth as a threat, an order, but spoken out loud, they sound more like a desperate plea. A whimper. Before a large hand clamps firmly over her mouth, silencing her.
‘Shut the fuck up and listen, you stupid little bitch.’
Bristling at the venom in her attacker’s words, the real threat that lingers there, Nancy does as she is told, shunning the instincts telling her to fight back, the feeling of wanting to claw at this fucker’s face, and scratch his beady evil-looking eyes from their sockets.
But there is no point in even trying. She is no match for this man, overpowered, crumpled beneath him, bleeding and hurt. She can barely move, barely breathe. He is four times her size and, by the sounds of it, he knows exactly what he is doing.
Instead, she realises, she’ll have to play along. Try and be smart about her next move. The last thing she wants to do is antagonise her attacker any further.
She feels him lean in closer. His hot breath on her face. His skin almost touching hers.
Her body prickles with fear as she wonders what he is going to do to her.
‘This is your only warning. Stop looking for information. Your father is dead, it won’t bring him back.’
Nancy was physically winded at his words, the little breath she had inside seeping out of her. This was about her trying to find out information about her father’s killer?
This was a premeditated attack?
Now she is petrified.
She wrinkles her nose in disgust at the strong whiff of rancid breath as the man continued speaking, his spittle landing on her cheek with every forceful word.
Helpless, all she can do is try and take in every detail: the size of his frame, the sound of his voice. Anything that will help her figure out who the fuck this man is.
‘We won’t tell you again. Stop digging, or we’ll bury you too!’
Feeling her hair pulled back for a final time, Nancy winces as her attacker grips the back of her head before slamming her down with great force so that her face whacks against the pavement once more.
The sound of her skull cracking against the rickety walkway floor is the last thing Nancy Byrne hears before she blacks out.
‘That was the thing about my Jimmy. The stubborn fucker only did things his way. Even when he was a boy, he wouldn’t listen to anyone. Even told the headmistress of his primary school to fuck off once after she scolded him for not sitting quietly while she was reading the class a story, so he did. Only five years old he was. The mouth on him even back then.’ Shaking his head, Michael Byrne laughed to himself, before downing the last of his pint of ale. Blissfully unaware that he wasn’t fooling anyone, Michael was thoroughly enjoying himself now.
In his element at being centre of attention as he stood surrounded by a group of Jimmy’s friends and business associates that had come back to the house for Jimmy’s wake, he was getting a bit carried away with himself and the fabricated stories and memories of his one and only child, that probably hadn’t even happened. Who the fuck knew? Michael certainly didn’t. He’d left Joanie to do all the child-rearing bollocks.
The truth was that he and Jimmy had hated each other’s guts.
As far as Michael was concerned Jimmy had always been a horrible, obnoxious bastard especially when it came to their relationship. Jimmy had treated his own father worse than scum. Publicly too. He’d done nothing but belittle and berate Michael at every opportunity and the older and more powerful he had become, the worse Michael had come off.
Jimmy had hated Michael with a vengeance, and made no disguise of the fact. In return, the feeling was most definitely mutual. Michael had hated Jimmy too.
Only it didn’t bode well to talk ill of the dead, did it, and in his intoxicated state even Michael Byrne knew that. Especially seeing as most of Jimmy’s nearest and dearest were some of London’s most notorious faces.
Not only would it look bad on the family if Michael told everyone what he really thought of his spiteful narcissistic son, but his Joanie would have no qualms in stringing him up by his balls from the lounge’s light fittings if she heard him speak out of turn about her precious Saint fucking Jimmy. Especially on the night of the man’s funeral.
Only, that was the best thing about tonight.
There was no one around to keep tabs on him any more, was there?
He was a free man again.
His Jimmy was dead, and lately Joanie wasn’t in any fit state to distinguish her arse from her elbow. The woman had turned into a mute since she’d heard the news of their son’s death. Barely holding it together. Which had turned out to be a right result for Michael as it happens. All week, she’d hardly muttered a single word to him. To anyone, in fact. It was pure bliss. Michael Byrne could do and say as he pleased, and no fucker would stop him.
He grinned.
Draining his glass triumphantly, he stared around the room. Aware that he was surrounded by some of the hardest, most ruthless bastards in London. All of them paying their respects to his Jimmy, and in turn giving Michael the time of day because of his apparent loss.
‘That was his biggest downfall ’en all. He always wanted to be centre of attention did my Jimmy. He wanted all eyes on him at all times… The only person that one ever listened to was his mother. Making out to you lot that he was a proper hard bastard, but the truth was he was a right old mummy’s boy. Old Joanie loved that.’ Oblivious to the looks that were being shared around the group, he continued. ‘It was almost incestuous at times, those two. They were thick as bleeding thieves. You try living here with them two like that. From the day that boy was born I became the black sheep in my own family. Couldn’t do right for fucking wrong around the bleeding pair of them. It was always Jimmy and Joanie – those two should have fucking married each other. That would have been a match made in fucking Heaven.’
Unaware that he was showing himself up, that there was now an undercurrent in the room, Michael grinned jovially as he saw Jack Taylor walking towards him, but the expression on the man’s face told him everything he needed to know.
He’d crossed the line.
‘I think you’ve had enough, don’t you?’ Jack Taylor said, as he swiped the pint glass out from his hand. Aware of who was watching how this was going to play out, Jack kept his cool, his tone neutral as he spoke though the anger in his words was clear enough even for Michael Byrne to take the hint. ‘You better rein it in. This is a wake, not a fucking party. It would serve you well to remember that.’
‘Like I need reminding,’ Michael said, spittle around the corner of his lips as he spoke. He wiped it away with the back of his hand. ‘Remember?’ he blurted out, shaking his head sadly. ‘I buried my only son today. That isn’t something that I’d forget in a hurry.’
‘All I’m saying is if your Joanie sees you like this, you know she’ll lose her head.’
‘Oh behave, Jack. That woman’s already lost the bleeding plot, hasn’t she? Her precious son’s dead. That’s enough to tip the woman over the edge, trust me. She lived for him and only him. She never gave a fuck about me.’
Jack looked thoroughly pissed off, and in the two decades the man had been a friend and business associate of Jimmy’s, Michael had never seen him look so angry.
Michael actually liked the man. They all did. As a well-respected detective inspector now for the Metropolitan police, he had helped the Byrne family out of a tight spot or two, many times over the years. The last thing he wanted to do was upset Jack Taylor.
‘I’m sorry, son!’ Michael said, doing his best to try and act sober as he played his trump card as the poor, grieving father. Making out that his behaviour was down to being riddled with grief. That he wasn’t in his right mind. ‘I’m not thinking straight, you know. I still can’t really believe that he’s really gone. That he’s never coming back.’
Jack nodded, though he felt anything but sympathy for the man before him. Michael was clearly too stupid or too drunk to realise that he wasn’t fooling anyone.
‘I’m hurting…’ Michael continued to sob, though as Jack searched his face, he could see there were no real tears there.
‘I know you are, mate,’ he said playing along, hoping to appeal to Michael’s softer side. ‘But you’ve already pissed off your Nancy. She stormed out about an hour ago, and if Daniel or Joanie hear you talking like this, there will be hell to pay…’
To his surprise, Michael nodded.
‘You’re right, Jack. You won’t hear another peep out of me,’ he said as he looked around the room at the group of men that had only minutes ago been huddled around him, hanging on his every word.
The group were dwindling off now. Glad of an excuse to get away from the man. Bored with his conversations and the fake niceties they had to bestow upon him.
People were beginning to leave.
He was glad.
From here on in, everything about their lives was going to change, for better or worse. Though Michael couldn’t see how things could get worse, if he was honest. Certainly not for him anyway.
Watching as Jack Taylor made his way back in to the kitchen, he tried to hide the happiness that bubbled away inside him.
Life goes on as they say, and life for Michael Byrne was going to be a hell of a lot better now that his Jimmy was dead and buried.
Chad Evans had been a nervous wreck when he’d first got in his punter’s car tonight, but he needn’t have been so worried.
His tip-off had been spot on.
If he wanted to get work here in London, then the derelict industrial badlands of King’s Cross was the place to find it. Or, as it turned out, the work would find him.
He’d only been walking York Way for a little over fifteen minutes when he’d been picked up by some guy in a swanky-looking motor. The bloke hadn’t said much, but then they’d both known that neither of them were there to do any talking. His first punter had only requested a blowie. Which was a right result and, even more so, when he hadn’t even argued when Chad had slid a condom on the guy. Another right old touch, especially after some of the stories he’d heard from his new boyfriend Joey.
In fact, thinking back to some of the horror stories that Joey had told him about his chosen vocation, it wasn’t any wonder that Chad had been crapping himself tonight.
His first night on the job, and all he could think about were the sick and twisted punters that got their kicks from hurting prosti. . .
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