Lost in Shadows Read online

  As he sat under the bright glare of his electric spotlight, Doyle gazed blankly out of his window, unseeing. The commuters, coats drawn close, vainly fighting against the quickly dropping temperature, were speared in the yellow flame of the street lamp, nearly at Doyle’s eye level, as, with heads down, braced against the biting wind, they hustled and bustled towards the station concourse and the train that would return them to their comfortable suburban home and their comfortable suburban lives with their comfortable suburban families. He had been sitting there most of the afternoon, refusing to allow himself to think about the events of the morning. Doyle had a God given talent to turn a mental blank to things that would drive ordinary mortals to drink at best and a psychiatric ward at worst. His only company had been a bottle of cheap supermarket Scotch but he hadn’t drunk too deeply. He knew that he had more work to do that day and now it was time to leave. He put on the same long black coat that he had worn that morning, figuring that any blood on the lining would be dry by now, and eased his way down the steep flight of creaking stairs that led onto the street. The chill hit him at once, bringing a rosy flush to his cheeks that may have looked avuncular on many men of his age. He followed the Waterloo Road down, past the Old Vic without looking up to see what was playing – that world wasn’t for him – crossed St. George’s Circus and turned down the London Road towards the Elephant and Castle. It took only a few minutes before he was standing outside the Mount of Venus. The neon sign, flashing the badly drawn outline of a semi-naked girl, proudly proclaimed it as south London’s premier adult entertainment venue. It also served as the site of Bellini’s head office. He nodded cursorily at the enormous black man in the dinner jacket and ear-piece on the door as he entered, wondering if it was really necessary for him to wear his Raybans at this time of day. He received a curt nod in return. For men like these words were often a superfluity. Besides, they didn’t know many. Passing the ticket office, he walked through the auditorium. Although it was mid-week and only early evening, there were already quite a few customers. Commuters, he thought they must be, lecherous businessmen enjoying a quick pit-stop and a horrendously overpriced drink as beautiful girls writhed athletically up and down their poles, pouting, rubbing their breasts and their crotches, trying desperately to entice a punter to put another note in their garter or to pay for a private dance. Doyle allowed himself just a moment to watch. Contrary to popular opinion he was, after all, human and the new girl who had centre stage was gorgeous. Tall, graceful and dark shiny skin almost the colour of teak. She had the sort of deep, languid black eyes that any man would happily drown within, a face of classical proportion that wouldn’t have been out of place on a Greek statue or a Milan catwalk. Her large, firm breasts with tantalisingly erect nipples called out to Doyle, calling him inexorably to her and telling him to bring his money. He resisted the temptation. Maybe Mr. Bellini would let him have half an hour with her as a birthday present. But his birthday was a good couple of months away, so he put thoughts of the nameless Aphrodite to a room in his mind he rarely allowed himself the luxury of visiting and locked the door. He turned his back towards her and silently moved towards the back of the room and the discreet door marked private beneath its protective shield of heavy black velvet curtain. He entered without knocking.

  Tommy sat there, with a man in a dishevelled suit, who was clearly the worse for drink, his face flushed, collar open and gaudy tie languidly pulled down away from his collar.

  “Evening, Frank”. Doyle nodded and visibly winced, as he did every time he saw it, at Tommy’s putrid mass of shocking curly orange hair. “Who’s this?”

  “Some larey bastard who got out of hand and started touching Diane up while she was doing the business on the podium. Mr. Bellini wants to have a word with him. He’s been waiting for you.”

  “Bloody hell. Couldn’t one of your monkeys handle it?” Doyle didn’t bother to try to hide the contempt in his voice.

  Tommy was unfazed. He’d heard all this a thousand times before. “That’s no way to talk, Frank. You know you love then really” he said good naturedly, before deciding that a word or two of explanation was probably politic. It didn’t pay to wind Doyle up too much. “Martin’s got the trots, Joe’s on door and Kenny’s out on some job or other for Bellini. We’d better go in. He’s waiting.”

  Tommy pulled up the drunk and man-handled him through the small reception room to the door beyond, he knocked and pushed him through without waiting for a reply. Bellini’s private office was opulent as befitted a man of his taste and status. The desk was oak, the chair and couch an inviting, luxuriant dark leather. The decor had cost a fortune and the whole place rightly reeked of money. Every time he entered that room Doyle wished that a bit more of it would flow his way.

  If Doyle was from the old school, Bellini was very much from the new. A gangster maybe, but certainly an educated one. He had qualified with a first class honours LL B law degree from the London School of Economics just like Cherie Blair and had, shortly after his twenty fifth birthday, inherited all of his father’s business interests. In the time since then, he had developed and extended them, more than trebling the profits and investing in various legitimate enterprises, such as the Mount of Venus, but he never lost sight of the value of the more nefarious, traditional money spinners. He glanced up from his top of the range laptop while he continued to type. His eyes were dark and intense. There was no mistaking his Italian heritage. The room remained under the pall of a deathly hush. After a delay just long enough to demonstrate his authority, he pushed back his chair, stood and strode purposefully towards Tommy.

  “Pick him up”, he said authoritatively, indicating to the inebriate who had slumped onto the floor. Tommy none too gently manhandled him to his feet.

  Looking him squarely in the eyes and with all the menace accrued in a lifetime of frightening people for a living, he spat out his words vitriolically with an acrimony that came straight from the heart. “You piece of worthless shit.” His tone became more measured suddenly. It was almost like he was having to make a conscious effort to regain his composure, “ I’m Bellini, Don Bellini” he pronounced each word slowly and deliberately, with a stentoriangravitasthat implied that, despite Bellini’s natural aversion to any form of publicity, the sad wreck of a man who stood before him should have already known. “This is my club. I own it and I own those girls out there. I make the rules. And the rule is you look but you don’t touch. Younevertouch my property. You fucking scum.” Bellini’s composure had proved short lived and by now he was spitting out the words again, his pupils had dilated and a vivid purple flush had spread across his cheeks. “You’re just scum. Filth. Contamination.” He was on a roll now. “You contaminate my girls. You contaminate my office. You contaminate me. You’re fucking pollution.”

  The drunk smiled to himself, the half bottle of Scotch he had consumed gave him a warm sense of inner bravura. My name isDonBellini! Who the fuck does he think he is? A two bit little Iti wideboy who’s seen the Godfather and thinks he’s Marlon Brando! Time was when I could buy and sell him any day of the week. His old man was probably a P.o.W. or an ice cream salesman. Wop. Dago. Spic. Fuck off back to Naples, Luigi. Thankfully though, some inherent cowardice or sanity held him back and he refrained from articulating his theories on the social development of an ethnic minority. But Bellini saw a faint half smile play across his lips. It lasted barely a fraction of a second but that was enough – and enough, as the man said, is too much. He had seen the same condescending, patronizing look before, a thousand times, on a thousand faces. It never failed to anger him. In fact, the drunk was half right. Bellini’s name was Donald, not typically Italian granted, but his father had wanted him to assimilate, not to cling to the old ways, to the old traditions of long forgotten past back home. He even changed his surname to Bell, but his son, more proud of his heritage than his father, changed it back as soon as he could. And his old manhadstarted with an ice cream van. But alongside the choc ices, cornets and nin
ety-nines he did a nice line in cannabis, L.S.D. and, later, heroin. Always one with an eye for the main chance, he had worked his way up from that, gambling and running girls, the occasional protection racket when he could get away with it, and strategic alliances here and there with some of the better known faces in the underworld, the sort of men who graced the social column and the legal page in the paper and made the odd appearance on the early evening T.V. news broadcasts. By the time the stress and cancer finally caught up with him, more than seven years ago now, the old goat had carved himself out a nice little manor in Southwark and Newington and despite his early half-hopes for a legitimate career for young Don, he was happy to testate all his worldly interests to his son and heir.

  Standing here now, face to face with the drunk, Don Bellini, could see the contempt in his eyes. To some people, his name would forever mark him as an outsider, a dago-leach on English society, a greasy little wop. He embraced his liminality but, at the same time, he also resented it. The contempt straight, bourgeois English society held him in played on Bellini’s mind most days and, at this moment, he was not a happy man. He gave a half nod to Tommy, who, understanding the unspoken command only too well, took hold of the drunks arms, and wrenched them backwards and up. At the same time, Bellini took a step backwards and brought his patent leather shoe with the very discrete steel toecap up into the man’s groin. Hard. He emitted a low guttural howl and doubled in the intensity of an agony he had never even thought to imagine before. Tommy let him sink to the floor once more as the man’s hands involuntarily felt for his testicles more to check that they were still there than to try and exorcize just a little of the burning, searing pain. He vomited violently.

  Bellini was angry and kicked him again, this time in the pit of his stomach. He deserved it. It was a new carpet. “Fucking hell”, he exploded, “You dirty bastard. What did you do that for?” The man was in no state to reply but he was very sorry. “Frank, get him out of here and give him the kicking of his life. Tommy give him a hand. And then get this mess cleaned up.”

  The two of them dragged the immobile lump out of the office and down the wrought iron steps that led into the quiet alley at the back of the club. There was no need to take him past the customers, even Dole knew that would be bad for business. In the street they picked up Tommy’s car and drove half a mile or so to some derelict industrial units. They’d both been there before, this was far from being an isolated incident. As Tommy left to return to his own sundry dirty work back at the club, Doyle systematically set about his business. The drunk was already finished, a spent force who couldn’t stand anymore, let alone try to defend himself but Doyle never for a moment thought of taking it easy on him. That wasn’t his way and orders from Mr. Bellini were definitely meant to be obeyed. As the man lay on the ground, stinking of the putrid acidity of his own vomit, Frank Doyle crouched down and began punching his face with a wild, primordial ferocity. His nose shattered with the first punch and as his blows continued to rain down, there was the crack of a cheek bone and four teeth were knocked clear out. Raising himself to his feet once more, he kicked the man squarely in his ribs and enjoying the gut-wrenching sound of the crunch of bones as they smashed. Taking a pride, as ever, in his work, Doyle delivered a parting shot, stamping with carefully aimed deliberation on each knee in turn. He thought the screaming would last forever. He didn’t mind, he was well able to filter out the pain and suffering and there was no-one else to hear. Kneecappings, he mused silently, were rapidly becoming his trademark. He liked the idea. After a while the drunk stopped screaming, he was mentally numb, and although pulses of pain were charging through his body, he whimpers were barely audible. What a day this had turned into. Redundancy in the morning, a little relief in the afternoon to ease the pain and then beaten senseless in the evening. It’s true, there is no justice in the world. Feeling inside the man’s jacket pocket, Doyle pulled out his wallet, pocketed the fifty or so pounds in cash that were left and made a mental note of his address. He didn’t expect to have to use it. Even if he was stupid enough to go to the police, by now Tommy would have cleared up any mess and Bellini would have his tame solicitor around in a meeting they had all been in for hours. Certainly no-one at the Mount of Venus would have ever seen this poor unfortunate man, the clientele liked anonymity and the staff knew better. It’s very sad – clearly the poor sod’s confused. No wonder when you look at the beating he’s taken. Don Bellini was always attentive to every detail.

  A gentle rain started to fall as Doyle made his way, unhurriedly, back to the club. The droplets shimmered and glistened in the harsh, artificial illumination of the street lights and, with the natural attraction of a child, he dispelled the small puddles that were beginning to form on the uneven streets. Strangely, he found it comforting as the rain drops rolled slowly around the corners of his eyes and down his cheeks. Their very sound was caressing even. He paused and raised his gaze to the heavens. There was something raw and elemental about it all; it was as if the rain could purge his dirty, calloused soul and wash away the guilt. But these thoughts, if indeed they really existed at all, could be articulated. They were buried deep in his subconscious, in the very pit of his psyche or in his soul if he had one. It had been a long time since Francis Doyle had felt any guilt, a very long time since he had felt anything at all for that matter, and as for his soul, he thought that he had probably left it back with the priests in Ireland. The streets were emptying now, most people had found their way home or were, perhaps, enjoying a last quick one for the road in the nearest pub, before returning to their nice, ordinary, regulated existences. That sort of life would never have suited Doyle. He liked the twilight of his world. He liked the darkness. He used to like the danger and the excitement; his heart would pump like a steam train and he could almost taste the adrenaline, bittersweet and infecting every fibre of his being as it exploded throughout his body. Insistent. Demanding more. All the time demanding more. And more. And more. Now, he simply needed it; it was all had. Like many an addict, Doyle convinced himself that he could give it all up. But why give it up? It’s what he knew and what he was good at.

  He dispelled his reverie as he entered the Mount of Venus for the second time that night, this time by the back entrance, as much to avoid soiling himself with contact with ordinary people as to avoid being seen. Better safe than sorry, though. Tapping almost imperceptibly on the door to Bellini’s office, he didn’t wait for a reply before letting himself in. He inhaled deeply, breathing in the slightly acrid smell of antique furniture and dirty money that pervaded the office. Doyle loved it although he wasn’t sure why. He breathed it in deeply and let it delicately infuse his senses.

  “Frankie. Any problems?” Bellini broke his reverie.

  “Never any problems, Boss. But just once it’d be nice to get a bloody lift back instead of having to walk”.

  Bellini laughed. He liked Doyle. Respected him even, albeit a little grudgingly. He was efficient and certainly good at his job. Useful to have around. A good man to have in a crisis as they say. Even though Bellini tried to make more and more of his money, both legitimate and illegitimate, in cyber space nowadays, there was still a lot of dirty work that had to be done when things weren’t altogether kosher; people to be kept in their place, disputes to be resolved, discipline to be administered. You could rely on Doyle. He always do what was asked of him. Always. No matter what it was. But Doyle seemed to like his work a bit too much for most people’s tastes. He’d revel in it. Bask in it. Bellini, to his initial shock and continuing surprise, found this increasingly interesting. Attractive, enticing almost. Often it seemed that it a job would become more like pleasure than business for Doyle. True your money was safe with him. It would never ever enter his head to rip you off. But even so, could you ever fully trust a man like Doyle?Reallytrust him? Would the day come, perhaps, when he would turn on you? But Bellini judged him harshly. Doyle, who had worked for his father before him, could not imagine his life without his boss, he thou
ght of him almost as a friend, ironically almost as a father figure. He was the one constant, stable factor in Doyle’s tenuous, transient life. Certainly, now, this was the closest thing Doyle had to a personal relationship, other than a lustful half glance at the girls in the club and an occasional half hour furiously spent with an inexpensive whore on Shepherd’s Market. But that was no more than once a month and it didn’t really count as a relationship even through Doyle’s strangely distorted eyes. He knew it for what it was. Bellini, on the other hand, looked after him. The employment was regular, if not well paid. Doyle never had to think for himself. He liked that. He never had to worry about the consequences of his actions – everything was well planned out for him and there was usually someone else around to clear up the inevitable mess. More often than not, it was Tommy nowadays.

  Although very few people realized it, in his own way Donald Bellini was as much of a psychopath as Francis Doyle. If anything, it seemed to be becoming increasingly apparent recently. Little things, providing little clues. A few weeks ago he would never have hit the drunk himself, for instance. Now he seemed to have ever more difficulty controlling his temper and his mood could swing violently from one moment to the next. But some things didn’t change. They would, could never change. No matter what he was like Bellini provided a structure, an order to Doyle’s existence that he could find nowhere else and he liked that. He supposed that this need for order was why he’d always got on so well in prison, always done his time so easily. His reputation went before him, of course, and that had helped too, but the big attraction was that in prison there were no decisions to be made for himself everything was regimented. Nothing could go wrong. There was never any need for improvisation. It was like the army. Doyle was sure that he would have done well in the army and sometimes regretted listening to Uncle Jimmy and his stories of easier ways of making a living; they certainly weren’t easier and it wasn’t much of a living. In wartime, Doyle would probably have done well in the army. He was the sort of man who would have stormed a German pill box or slit the throats of Japanese sentries without compunction and he would have come home as a hero with the Victoria Cross or as a glorious martyr to the cause of peace and freedom. But in peacetime, the only outlet for his violence would have been among his comrades and, in the army, he would not have a Mr. Bellini there to sweep some very large pieces under his all embracing carpet.